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ELEMENTS    OF 


LITERARY    CRITICISM 


BY 

CHARLES  F.  JOHNSON 

PROFESSOR  OF  ENGLISH  LITKRAl'URE,  TRINITY  COLLEGE 

HARTFORD 

AUTHOK  OF  "  ENGLISH  WORDS  '' 


NEW  YORK  •:•  CINCINNATI  •:•  CHICAGO 
AMERICAN    BOOK  COMPANY 


Copyright,  1898,  by  Harper  &  Brothers. 


All  rights  -eserved. 
E-P     5 


Tr\l? 


/  ■? 


PREFACE 


The  real  value  of  literature  lies  in  the  fact 
that  it  is  a  source  of  pleasure,  and  it  is  most  to 
be  desired  that  we  enjoy  it  unconsciously,  as  the 
Scotch  enjoy  the  poems  of  Robert  Burns,  without 
any  thought  of  elements,  or  qualities,  or  reasons. 
But  that  is  possible  only  where  an  entire  com- 
munity is  possessed  of  a  love  for  poetry  that  has 
grown  up  among  them,  with  which  all  have  been 
familiar  from  earliest  childhood.  We  have  very 
little  folk-poetry  and  have  inherited  a  vast  liter- 
ature which  we  haye  not  produced.  Study  and 
reflection  add  greatly  to  our  appreciation  of  this. 
I  have,  therefore,  examined  some  of  the  most 
plain  and  obvious  qualities  of  some  of  the  work 
of  a  few  of  the  great  English  writers,  with  the 
idea  that  an  intelligent  understanding  of  the 
simplest  reasons  why  admired  writings  are  ad- 


.'iH8j32 


IV  PREFACE 

mirable  might  lead  to  love  of  them  for  them- 
selves and  less  unfruitful  regard  for  them  on 
traditionary  authority. 

I   may  add  that  the  book  has  grown   out  of 
talks  with  students  and  is  written  for  learners. 
"^  C.  F.  J. 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.   General  Introduction i 

II.    Unity i7 

III.   The  Power  of  Drawing  Character  ....     47 

IV.    The  Writer's  Philosophy 100 

V.    The  Musical  Word-power 143 

VI.    The  Phrasal  Power 191 

VII.    The  Descriptive  Powder 224 

VIII.    The  Emotional  Power 255 


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ELEMENTS  OF  LITERARY  CRITICISM 


CHAPTER   I 


Like  all  words  the  meaning  of  which  is  so  ex- 
tended as  to  embrace  a  complicated  series  of 
phenomena,  the  word  Literature  is  very  much 
changed  in  extent  and  significance  by  its  quali- 
fying adjective.  Thus,  if  we  should  say,  "The 
Literature  of  Chemistry,"  or  "  The  Literature 
of  Geology,"  we  should  mean  all  that  has  been 
written  on  these  sciences.  If  we  say  "  Patris- 
tic Literature,"  we  should  include  all  contro- 
versial or  doctrinal  writing  by  members  of  the 
Christian  Church  up  to,  perhaps,  the  eighth  cen- 
tury. If,  however,  we  should  use  the  term  "  Eng- 
lish Literature,"  we  should  by  no  means  wish  to 
include  all  that  has  been  written  or  printed  in 
the  English  language.  We  should  exclude  books 
written  about  chemistry  or  geology  almost  en- 
tirely. We  should  exclude  all  law  reports  and 
all  mathematical  works,  all  legislative  documents 
— in  fact,  all  writings  where  the  registration  of 
I 


2  ELEMENTS    OF    LITERARY    CRITICISM 

fact  or  the  conveying  of  information  was  the 
sole  object  sought  and  the  sole  end  attained.  A 
book  must  be  something  more  than  a  record  of 
fact,  or  a  reasoning  on  fact,  expressed  in  the  Eng- 
lish language,  to  bring  it  within  the  definition 
of  English  literature.  Jt  must  possess  artistic 
form.  But  mere  statements  of  fact  may  be  in- 
valuable to  the  historian,  or  even  to  the  poet, 
who  must  base  himself  on  fact  if  he  wishes  to 
construct  such  a  presentation  of  fact  as  may 
worthily  be  called  a  poem,  though  they  are  not 
literature.  They  are  only  the  raw  material  of 
literature  —  frequently,  indeed,  very  stimulating 
to  the  imagination  because  they  leave  so  much 
to  it. 

Form,  then,  is_the  criterion  of  literature.  Lit- 
erature, like  language,  depends  primarily  on  the 
original  instinct  of  the  human  mind  towards  com- 
munication, for  all  the  finer  shades  of  thought 
and  all  the  subtler  relations  of  things  can  be  com- 
municated only  through  the  artistic  form.  Nor 
can  noble  or  complex  emotion  be  conveyed  in 
any  other  medium.  Literary  form  gives  lan- 
guage a  scope  and  reach  which  it  does  not  pos- 
sess as  language.  Furthermore,  although  the 
primary  motive  of  the  writer  does  not  affect  the 
literary  value  of  the  product — he  may  wish,  for 
instance,  merely  to  entertain  —  there  is  in  our 
race  a  bond  between  the  love  of  beauty  and  the 
love  of  reality  or  truth,  so  that  what  is  put  in 


ELEMENTS    OF    LITERARY    CRITICISM  3 

the  literary  form  is  almost  invariably  instruc- 
tive in  the  highest  sense  and  moral  in  the  high- 
est sense.  It  may  not  add  definitely  to  our  knowl- 
edge of  historic  fact  or  of  natural  phenomena, 
but  it  excites  a  new  interest  in  men  and  nature 
and  enables  us  to  understand  that  both  are  mys- 
terious. There  is  no  necessary  connection  be- 
tween literary  form  and  righteousness  ;  but  liter- 
ature does  not  lend  itself  to  the  service  of  evil 
as  readily  as  other  art  forms — notably  music  and 
painting — do.  It  has  a  moral  aptitude  and  a  dig- 
nity greater  than  any  it  could  derive  merely  from 
its  nature  as  a^upplementary  language  of  great 
refinement) 

The  ability  to  cast  what  he  writes  into  an 
artistic  form  is  part  of  the  personality  of  the 
writer,  and,  like  all  elements  of  the  personality, 
is  colored  by  the  general  notions  of  those  with 
whom  it  communicates  and  the  medium  through 
which  it  expresses  itself.  The  literary  form  of 
the  eighteenth  century  is  quite  different  from 
that  of  to-day.  The  literary  power  is  subtle, 
rare,  sympathetic,  and  indefinable.  Probably  the 
most  important  part  of  it  lies  in  that  portion  of 
the  mind  of  whose  workings  the  subject  is  en- 
tirely unconscious.  Possibly  all  men  possess  it 
in  a  limited  degree.  A  few  possess  it  in  such  a 
degree  as  to  be  creative,  and  a  very  few  possess 
it  in  such  a  degree  that  we  are  tempted  to  say 
that  other  men  do  not  possess  it  at  all.     If  it  is  a 


4  ELEMENTS   OF    LITERARY   CRITICISM 

common  possession  of  the  great  body  of  human- 
ity, it  is  usually  embryonic  or  dormant.  If  the 
men  who  possess  it  write,  what  they  write  has 
the  literary  quality  as  distinguished  from  cor- 
rectness: it  has  something,  too,  Avhich  distin- 
guishes it  from  the  work  of  other  men.  If  the 
men  who  possess  it  in  its  highest  development 
write,  what  they  write  becomes  literature  of  the 
highest  quality,  and  it  would  seem  that  such 
men  must  write — that  the  power  must  energize. 
There  have  been  but  three  such  illuminated  in- 
tellects in  our  era  :  Dante,  Shakespeare,  Goethe, 
unless,  indeed,  we  should  include  Hugo  and  Tol- 
stoi. It  is  usual  to  say  that  such  men  possess 
genius,  which  is  an  indirect  way  of  saying  that 
we  cannot  account  for  the  difference  between 
them  and  other  men.  There  is  hardly  a  genera- 
tion which  does  not  produce  some  literary  artist 
of  a  lower  order,  though  some  periods  are  vastly 
more  fruitful  than  others. 

As  said  before,  this  artistic  power  is  indefin- 
able, since  its  effects  are  all  that  we  can  see  or 
measure  in  any  way.  By  comparing  its  mani- 
festation in  different  men,  some  of  its  elements 
may  be  distinguished,  but  the  residue,  the  mo- 
tive power,  is  very  likely  the  most  important  and 
essential  part.  We  talk  about  literary  powers. 
What  binds  these  powers  together?  The  human 
mind  is  not  separable  into  parts  except  on  some 
barren  metaphysical  hypothesis^    What  a  mind 


ELEMENTS    OF    LITERARY    CRITICISM  5 

produces  is  permanent  and  can  be  examined. 
This  product  is  found  to  possess  certain  charac- 
teristic qualities.  We  say  that  these  qualities — 
unity,  music,  wit,  etc. — are  referable  to  certain 
powers  of  the  author's  mind,  although  we  have 
no  right  to  say  that  the  mind  possesses  powers 
or  parts  at  all.  When  we  speak  of  the  different 
mental  powers — imagination,  argumentative  pow- 
ers, etc. — although,  as  far  as  we  know,  no  such 
powers  exist — we  mean  merely  the  unknown  and 
entirely  inscrutable  differences  which  make  some 
men's  writings  argumentative  and  others  imag- 
inative. Possibly  we  might  say  that  we  are  con- 
scious that  these  qualities  of  the  writings  address 
different  elements  in  our  own  minds,  though  we 
should  be  very  apt  to  mislead  ourselves  if  we  did 
so,  and  there  is  certainly  no  reason  that  we 
should  run  any  such  risk.  Indeed  there  is  good 
reason  to  say  that  the  most  important  of  the 
mental  operations  Avhich  result  in  the  production 
of  something  artistic  do  not  take  place  on  the 
realm  of  consciousness  at  all,  but  in  some  deep- 
er, inscrutable  region,  and  are  taken  up  into  the 
similar  hidden  region  in  our  own  minds.  Thus, 
some  of  the  literary  features  of  folk-lore  and 
mythology  can  be  explained  only  by  saying  that 
they  are  unexplainable.  It  is,  therefore,  by  a  sort 
of  figure  that  we  speak  of  "  the  power  of  drawing 
character,"  "  the  phrasal  power,"  etc.  We  exam- 
ine different  products  and  find  marked   differ- 


6  ELEMENTS    OF    LITERARY    CRITICISM 

ences  of  structure  and  texture.  These  differ- 
ences  we  refer  illegitimately  to  corresponding 
differences  in  the  minds  of  different  authors. 
But  no  harm  can  be  done  if  we  speak  of  parts  or 
provinces  of  the  literary  power,  though  all  that 
we  can  know  anything  about  are  the  different 
characteristics  of  literary  products,  if  we  do  not 
flatter  ourselves  that  we  are,  in  reality,  analyz- 
ing the  human  mind  (a  task  in  which  the  human 
race  has  wasted,  and  will  always  continue  to 
waste,  half  of  its  available  time).  With  this  res- 
ervation of  the  meaning  or  extension  of  the  word 
power,  we  classify  the  mental  powers  as  follows  : 
First:  The  power  of  making  a  unity  of  a  pro- 
duction, so  that  it  is  structural  and  consistent, 
so  that  all  the  parts,  sentences,  stanzas,  para- 
graphs, and  chapters — though  some  of  them  may 
be  uninteresting  in  themselves  —  contribute  to 
the  general  effect,  and  the  whole  seems  organic, 
as  if  it  had  grown  by  a  continuous  process.  This 
power  is  an  absolutely  necessary  one,  since,  if  a 
production  is  destitute  of  unity  and  continuity, 
it  is  merely  a  collection  of  materials  and  suggest- 
ions on  which  the  author  has  not  exercised  any 
formative  influence.  If  the  material  is  abundant 
and  complex,  like  the  scenes,  events,  and  charac- 
ters of  a  long  narrative,  the  production  of  a  unity 
is  one  of  the  decisive  marks  of  genius  ;  for  some- 
thing is  accomplished  which  is  so  far  beyond  the 
reach  of  intelligence  and  industry  that  it  seems 


ELEMENTS    OF    LITERARY    CRITICISM  ^ 

as  if  it  had  come  into  being  without  the  author's 
conscious  volition.  In  the  short  story  or  poem, 
or  in  an  argumentative  discourse  where  the  whole 
can  be  taken  into  the  mind  at  once,  unity  is  much 
less  difficult  of  attainment,  but  even  in  these 
cases  it  is  so  frequently  missed  that  its  presence 
gives  us  the  pleasure  we  always  feel  from  con- 
tact with  the  artistic  mind.  This  power  is  pos- 
sessed by  Hawthorne  and  Ibsen,  though  mani- 
fested by  each  in  very  different  ways.  Ibsen  fuses 
uninteresting,  and  sometimes  unpleasant,  parts 
into  a  whole  of  undeniable  power  ;  and  Haw- 
thorne makes  a  mass  of  ornamental  detail  sub- 
servient to  a  central  conception  with  such  skill 
that  we  sometimes  overlook  the  beauty  of  the 
parts  in  our  admiration  of  the  whole. 

Second":  The  power  of  realizing  a  character  so 
that  ^significant  and  insignificant  words  and  ac- 
tions, and  even  apparently  contradictory  words 
and  actions,  are  always  harmonious  with,  and  de- 
pendent on,  the  nature  of  the  living  agent  or 
character  from  which  they  proceed,  and  so  that 
all  the  character  is  represented  as  doing  and 
thinking,  and  all  that  the  other  characters  say 
about  it  is  traceable  to  natural  human  springs  of 
action  and  thought,  and  contributes  towards  mak- 
ing clear,  definite,  and  human  our  conception  of 
the  character.  This  is  the  greatest  artistic  pow- 
er, for  it  implies  insight  and  sympathetic^Teel- 
ing  as  well  as  observation.    Human  nature  is  the 


8  ELEMENTS   OF    LITERARY   CRITICISM 

most  complicated  and  interesting  phsnomenon 
presented  to  us,  and  although  the  problems  it 
presents  can  never  be  solved,  the  statement  of 
them  is  more  attractive  than  the  certainties  of 
science.   The  concrete  embodiment  of  one  of  these 
problems,  whether   on   canvas   or  in    a    printed 
book,  can  be  effected  only  by  an  artist  of  excep- 
tional powers.     The  best  exemplification  of  this 
power    is    Shakespeare's    Hmiilct.      This    power 
is  possessed  in  different  degrees  by  Thackeray, 
Tolstoi,   George    Eliot,   Chaucer,  Jane    Austen, 
Fielding,  Defoe,  and  many  others.     It  is  meas- 
ured as  much  by  the  range  of  characters  a  writer 
is  capable  of  presenting  as  by  definiteness  in  pre- 
senting a  few.     As  a  rule,  definiteness  or  realism 
increases  as  scope  or  depth  decreases  ;  but  in  any 
case,  depth  is  preferable  to  definiteness,  because 
human  nature  is  too  complex  for  accurate  scien- 
tific presentment.     Thus  Shakespeare,  who  gives 
us  a  number  of  types  of  man  universal,  is  superi- 
or to  Thackeray  or  Fielding,  who  gives  us  a  lim- 
ited number  of  types  of  the  species  Englishman, 
restricted,  too,  to  the  Englishman  as  he  appeared 
in  one  or  two  centuries.     Many  great  artists,  as 
Tennyson,  Byron,  and  in  a  less  degree  Brown- 
ing, are  deficient  in  this  power, 
ygliird)  The  power  of  ^sug2estingJ±£.JxlaJuon_ 
of  man  to  nature  and  to  the  universal*  harmony 
'^i  things,  of  giving  us  a  glimpse  beyond  this  lit- 
tle world  of  ours,  "  where  shadow  pursues  shad- 


ELEMENTS    OF    LITERARY    CRITICISM  9 

ow,"  into  the  world  of  realities,  of  showing  us  the 
weakness  of  human  reason  and  the  power  of  the 
moral  law,  the  freedom  and  courage  of  the  will 
and  the  strength  of  affection  and  habit  ;  the 
power,  in  other  words,  of  presenting  a  concep- 
tion of  the  world  as  it  really  is  through  the  medl-- 
um  of  the  world  as  it  seems.  All  this  depends  on 
fhe  presence  in  the  writer's  mind  of  a  sane  and 
substantial  philosophy  of  life.  By  this  is  meant, 
not  a  reasoned  philosophy  or  metaphysical  theo- 
ry, but  an  instinctive  judgment  which  estimates 
at  their  proper  relative  values  all  of  the  objects  of 
desire  and  aversion,  all  of  the  controlling  motives 
of  men.  This  balance  or  sanity  of  mind  is  not 
a  distinctive  mark  of  the  writer,  for  it  may  be 
found  in  men  who  feel  no  impulse  to  expression, 
and  then  it  gives  to  conduct  a  certain  justness 
and  rationality.  When  it  is  found  in  a  writer,  it 
may  not  at  all  add  to  his  artistic  effectiveness, 
but  it  gives  his  work  a  truth  and  a  relation  to 
universal  law,  which  we  say — for  want  of  a  better 
term  —  is  a  result  of  the  writer's  philosophical 
power.  This  power  is  one  of  the  many  elements 
of  Shakespeare's  greatness,  and  its  absence  rele- 
gates Byron,  magnificent  artist  as  he  is,  to  the 
second  or  third  rank. 

^^^^irtl^  The  power  of  expressing  thought,  ia, 
musical  word^   This,  though  but  a  small  matter 
in  itself,  contributes  more  than  any  other  ele- 
ment to  giving  a  production  lasting  popularity 


lO  ELEMENTS    OF    LITERARY    CRITICISM 

It  is  a  complex  matter  of  vowel  sequence,  con- 
sonant sequence,  phrase  cadence,  and  sentence 
wave,  subtly  related  to  the  thought,  and  a  result 
of  the  complex  personality  of  the  writer.  It 
colors  the  thought  somewhat  in  the  same  way 
that  the  tone  of  the  voice,  modulation,  gesture, 
and  expression  of  the  face  color  vocal  utterance, 
making  it  infinitely  richer  and  fuller,  and  some- 
times giving  words  a  meaning  quite  different 
from  their  bare  significance.  In  metrical  form 
it  fills  the  words  with  indefinite  suggestion.  It 
is  for  this  reason  that  poetry  is  so  much  more 
condensed  than  prose,  and  that  so  much  more 
can  be  hinted  at  in  verse,  although  a  given  num- 
ber of  words  in  verse  require  much  more  time  for 
utterance  aloud  than  the  same  number  in  prose. 
Swinburne  is  remarkable  for  possessing  this  pow- 
er in  such  excess  as  to  obscure,  if  not  exclude,  all 
others. 

^^^ift^ :  The  feeling-  for  words,  so  that  the  right 
ones  come  readily  to  the  mind,  or,  as  it  is  desig- 
nated, the  phrasal  power.  Words  are  full  of  as- 
sociations,  and  when  skilfully  combined  the  asso- 
ciations heighten  each  other  with  striking  effect. 
Many  words  are  used  metaphorically  in  ordinary 
discourse,  and  a  novel  use  is  usually  a  new  meta- 
phor. This  is  the  technical  art  which  is  necessary 
to  render  the  other  powers  effective.  It  is  ac- 
quired by  practice,  though  aptitudes  vary  greatly. 
The  phrasal  power  is  one  element — perhaps  the 


ELEMENTS    OF   LITERARY   CRITICISM  II 

most  important  one — of  wit.  The  musical  power 
has  reference  to  words  as  sounds  ;  this  has  more 
reference  to  the  words  as  symbols  of  ideas. 
^■^ixtB  :  The  descriptive  power...  We  hav^e  to  do 
with  a  world  of  appearances  with  which  our 
senses  put  us  in  relation.  One  of  the  functions 
of  art  is  to  enable  us  to  see  what  the  artist  has 
seen  as  it  appears  to  him.  The  artist  is  a  man 
whose  powers  of  observation  are  superior  to  ours 
and  are  trained.  Consequently  he  sees  more  and 
more  truly  than  we.  The  literary  artist  puts  us 
in  possession  of  his  impression  of  things.  He 
may  describe  a  crowded  street,  a  mother  and 
child,  or  a  forest  lake,  but  in  any  case  he  discloses 
part  of  the  real  nature  of  the  object  and  makes 
us  see  it  as  he  saw  it,  whether  he  saw  it  with  his 
bodily  eye  or  in  imagination.  To  call  up  before 
the  mind  images  of  the  concrete  is  the  function 
of  description.  Every  one  who  writes  attempts 
description,  because  it  is  easy  to  do  passably, 
though  so  difficult  to  do  well.  Stevenson  is  re- 
markable for  the  power  of  his  short  descriptive 
touches  Avoven  into  his  narration ;  Ruskin,  for 
the  pictorial  quality  of  his  description  of  the  sea 
and  clouds  ;  Macaulay,  for  the  gorgeous,  theatri- 
cal quality  of  his  descriptions  of  historic  scenes. 
^^evei^ijTjjIntensity  of  feeliiigjind  readiness  to 
emotional  excitement.  T'his  is,  perhaps,  not  so 
much  an  artistic  power  as  it  is  a  dynamic  force 
which  gives  energy  to  the  working  of  the  others, 


12  ELEMENTS    OF    LITERARY    CRITICISM 

but  it  certainly  imparts  an  air  of  conviction,  and 
consequently  the  quality  of  sincerity  and  strength 
to  whatever  is  written.  What  a  man  writes  is 
invariably  colored  by  the  intensity  of  his  beliefs. 
He  feels  and  expresses  his  feeling.  He  has  some 
ideas  about  causes  and  consequences  of  events, 
about  right  and  wrong,  and  about  himself  and 
other  people.  These  opinions  may  be  right  or 
wrong,  and  usually  are  partly  right  and  partly 
wrong,  but  if  a  writer  holds  them  with  inten- 
sity of  conviction  it  gives  his  utterances  a  power 
over  other  men  that  is  one  of  the  qualities  that, 
when  infused  into  a  record,  constitute  literary 
value.  Thus,  the  intense  conviction  apparent 
in  Milton's  prose  and  Dante's  poem  adds  to  the 
dignity  and  strength  of  their  writings. 

If  men  possessing  several  of  the  qualities  out- 
lined above  write,  what  they  write  becomes  liter- 
ature. If  a  man  possessing  most  of  them  in  a 
high  degree  writes,  what  he  writes  becomes  liter- 
ature of  the  first  order.  It  must  not  be  sup- 
posed, however,  that  the  above  analysis  furnishes 
a  mechanical  system  by  which  we  can  unerring- 
ly assign  the  literary  rank  of  any  production. 
For  all  these  powers  are  fused  into  a  personality, 
and  in  the  artistic  work  of  a  personality  there  is 
an  evanescent  quality  which  cannot  be  classified 
and  yet  may  be  the  most  important  quality  of 
the  work.  Analysis  merely  aids  us  in  the  criti- 
cising of  a  work  of  art,  by  furnishing  us  with  an 


ELEMENTS   OF    LITERARY    CRITICISM  13 

outline  of  the  more  noticeable  qualities  of  just 
thought  and  artistic  form.  The  question  as  to 
whether  a  certain  literary  product  is  to  rank  as 
a  classic  is  settled  by  a  tacit  agreement  of  sev- 
eral generations.  It  will  be  found,  however,  that 
some  of  the  qualities  referred  to  are  invariably 
present  in  any  work  to  which  the  literary  public 
assigns  high  rank. 

It  is  quite  evident  that  these  powers  are  very 
different  in  nature  and  scope,  and  that  they 
might  be  divided  into  two  classes,  the  technical 
and  the  fundamental.  The  musical,  the  phrasal, 
and  the  descriptive  powers  are  exercised  on  the 
Ajorkmanship  ;  the  philosophical,  the  emotional^ 
,  and  the  character-building  powers,  as  far  as  they 
depend  on   sympathetic  insight,  are   matters  of_ 

the  artist's  inner  nature  and  determine  the  qual- 

■  "II  ■ -' 

ity  ot  the  m^itter  he  shapes,  not  the  manner  of 

tVip    <^)-)npi'nn|- •    wVii'Ip    tliP    pr>A<'Pr  nf  rringtriiot-i'nfr    a 

complex  and  multiform  unity  seems  to  lie  be- 
tween them,  since  in  its  simplest  manifestations 
it  is  the  result  of  conscious  thought,  but  in  its 
higher  workings  entirely  transcends  and  some- 
times contradicts  the  laws  of  technical  art.  Still, 
such  a  grouping  is  not  warranted,  since  all  those 
powers  are  intimately  connected  and  interpene- 
trate each  other.  The  powers  of  expression  are 
not  related  to  the  powers  of  thought  in  the  way 
that  the  skill  of  a  workman  is  related  to  the  ma- 
terial he  fashions,  for  in  literature  expression  is, 


14  ELEMENTS    OP    LITERARY   CRITICISM 

in  a  certain  sense,  equal  in  value  to  thought,  and 
form  gives  matter  life  and  meaning.  The  ar- 
tistic manipulation  of  the  idea  makes  it  a  new 
idea,  not  a  new  embodiment  of  the  old  one.  At 
the  same  time  perfect  technique  exercised  with- 
out regard  to  thought  cannot  create  literature. 
The  two  must  unite  and  in  reality  mould  each 
other  and  react  on  each  other.  Consequently,  the 
technical  elements  are  entitled  to  rank  with  the 
thought  elements  in  an  outline  classification  of 
literary  powers. 

It  is  undoubtedly  true  that  the  greater  part  of 
the  writings  that  have  been  popular  in  their  time 
cease  to  be  read,  or,  if  read,  seem  dry  or  tedious, 
and,  by  our  standard,  inartistic.  This  is  espe- 
cially true  of  the  long  romances  of  the  middle 
ages,  of  Sidney's  Arcadia,  and  even  of  the  novels 
of  fifty  years  ago.  This  is  because  every  age  has 
its  own  manner,  which  seems  a  little  artificial 
to  those  succeeding.  But  as  soon  as  we  become 
even  a  little  accustomed  to  this  manner  and  ap- 
preciate the  contemporaneous  way  of  looking  at 
things  and  using  words,  we  find  that  no  book 
ever  achieved  a  lasting  reputation  without  solid 
literary  qualities.  A  very  little  examination  will 
lead  us  to  the  conclusion  that  at  many  periods 
the  artistic  standard  of  the  past  has  been  higher 
than  ours  of  to-day.  This  is  noticeably  true  of 
the  fourteenth  and  sixteenth  centuries  in  Eng- 
land.    Literature  is  a  reflection  of  the  mind  and 


ELEMENTS   OF   LITERARY   CRITICISM  15 

manners  and  the  life  of  an  age  in  a  form  which 
that  age  considers  good.  Literature  of  the  high- 
est order  is  the  same  matter  in  a  form  which  all 
ages  consider  good.  Taking  out  nine  or  ten  of 
Shakespeare's  plays,  English  literature  of  the 
highest  order  would  fill  a  very  small  volume. 
But  the  great  body  of  the  literature  of  any  age 
has  an  historic  interest  as  a  local  and  temporary 
expression.  This  interest  we  do  not  propose  to 
consider  at  all,  although  it  must  be  admitted  that 
if  we  learn  even  a  little  of  the  tone  and  temper 
of  any  period  we  can  discern  artistic  elements 
in  its  literature  which  we  should  otherwise  have 
overlooked  entirely.  Contemporary  production 
calls  out  a  lively  personal  interest  dispropor- 
tioned  to  artistic  value  because  it  is  addressed 
directly  to  us,  and  embodies  our  own  thoughts. 
Such  interest  is  very  short-lived,  unless  a  book 
possesses,  like  most  of  Stevenson's  and  Walter 
Pater'Sj  for  instance,  some  of  the  higher  quali- 
ties. The  question  what  gives  a  book  immedi- 
ate popularity,  although  a  very  interesting  and 
dit^cult  one,  is  quite  different  from  the  question 
what  gives  a  book  permanence,  what  makes  it 
literature? 

It  must  be  admitted  that  in  all  artistic  ques- 
tions definition  and  analysis  go  but  little  way. 
In  literature  especially  the  function  of  analysis 
is  merely  an  attempt  to  give  us  a  reasonable  basis 
for  an  enthusiastic  enjoyment  and  love  felt  be- 


l6  ELEMENTS   OF    LITERARY   CRITICISM 

fore  the  analysis  is  undertaken.  Still,  the  con- 
sciousness that  there  is  such  a  basis  undoubtedly 
strengthens  our  regard  for  and  pleasure  in  that 
which  we  already  enjoyed  unreflectively.  But  it 
is  not  claimed  that  any  analysis  can  be  final. 
Perhaps  literary  excellence  depends  more  on  a 
harmony  and  proportion  between  the  qualities 
that  have  been  instanced  than  on  the  qualities 
themselves.  Perhaps  the  essential  elements  are 
too  subtle  to  be  analyzed.  A  chemist  can  ana- 
lyze a  wine  and  discover  sugar  and  alcohol  and 
water  and  some  complicated  hydro-carbons,  but 
that  which  makes  the  perfume  or  bouquet  escapes 
him.  It  is  quite  as  hopeless  to  attempt  to  iso- 
late the  charm  of  Charles  Lamb  or  Sir  Thomas 
Browne.  It  must  be  borne  in  mind  in  the  fol- 
lowing criticism  of  the  literary  powers  that  the 
whole,  the  artistic  personality,  is  far  greater  than 
the  parts  or  powers  into  which  it  is  divided,  even 
if  we  admit  that  the  classification  is  based  on  real 
and  elemental  distinctions. 


CHAPTER  II 

UNITY 

The  first  quality,  unity,  is  an  absolutely  nec- 
essary one.  An  agglomeration  of  material  has 
no  literary  value,  any  more  than  a  stone -heap 
has  an  architectural  value,  flatter  must  be  sub- 
jected to  some  constraining  or  arranging  force, 
it  must  be  acted  on  in  some  way  by  nature  or 
will  before  it  has  any  claims  to  arouse  an  intel- 
ligent interest,  to  say  nothing  of  a  sense  of  life 
and  beauty.  The  stone-heap  must  be  stratified 
by  running  water  or  moulded  by  the  secular  ac- 
tion of  a  glacier,  or  it  remains  a  blot  on  the 
landscape.  The  stock  of  facts,  the  detached 
thoughts  and  series  of  unrelated  impressions  a 
man  collects  on  a  subject,  must  be  arranged  or 
modified  by  an  individual  mind,  or  they  remain 
what  they  were,  parts  or  pieces,  fragments,  nnt  a 
whole.  The  consciousness  of  the  presence  of  a 
human  being,  a  mind  which  has  worked  over  the 
matter  which  we  are  reading,  is  one  source  of 
our  pleasure  in  literature.  But  if  the  author  has 
done  nothing  but  amass  he  is  uninteresting.     A 


l8  ELEMENTS    OF    LITERARY    CRITICISM 

personality  which  merely  amasses  is  unintelligent. 
To  attract  others  it  must  be  evident  that  it  has 
arranged,  selected,  and  ordered  the  material  it 
has  gathered,  and  that  not  by  some  mechanical 
law,  but  by  a  law  of  its  own  ;  otherwise  we  take 
very  little  interest  in  its  work.  The  power  of 
artistic  selection,  of  rejecting  the  unharnionious 
and  incongruous,  results  in  the  production  of  an 
organic  unity — a  whole,  impressed  with  the  nat- 
ure of  a  living  man — something  which  could  not 
have  resulted  from  the  work  of  any  other.  There 
IS  no  originality  in  collecting  facts  and  present- 
ing them  merely  according  to  some  traditional 
method.  The  personal  manner  modifying  and 
tempering  the  traditional  method  gives  life  and 
definite  character  and  an  organic  if  not  a  formal 
unity. 

Before  distinguishing  between  organic  and  for- 
mal unity,  we  will  consider  briefly  unity  as  ap- 
plied to  long  and  short  compositions.  The  term 
unity  is  applicable  to  short  productions — lyrics, 
sonnets,  and,  in  a  limited  sense,  even  to  sentences. 
In  a  short  composition,  where  all  the  parts  can  be 
readily  considered  ar  once,  it  is  of  course  much 
easier  of  attainment.  We  shall  therefore  re- 
strict its  application  to  compositions  of  some  ex- 
tension. Coleridge's  Ancient  Mariner  is  an  excel- 
lent example  of  poetic  unity  in  tone,  congruity 
of  metaphor,  and  incident.  So  also  is  Keats's 
La  Belle  Davie  Sans  Merci.     But  this  latter  is 


UNITY  19 

SO  short  that  it  is  not  much  more  than  a  bit  of 
impressionism,  the  presenting  of  a  single  object 
from  a  single  point  of  view.  It  is  therefore  in- 
ferior, as  an  example  of  the  power  of  Keats  over 
his  material,  to  Isabella  or  to  Lamia.  Endymion 
is  long  enough  to  prove  that  Keats  at  first  was 
not  strong  in  artistic  construction,  although  the 
sonnet  On  First  Looking  into  Chapman  s  Homer 
is  as  well  rounded  and  compact  a  poetic  unit 
as  our  literature  can  show.  But  the  Eve  of  St. 
Agnes  is  lonj^  enough  to  convince  us  that  jie 
was  able  to  mould  a  considerable  mass  of  ma- 
terial. 

A  book  of  detached  thoughts  like  Coleridge's 
Table  Talk  possesses  no  unity  and  makes  claim 
to  none,  although  it  is  eminently  Coleridgean 
throughout.  It  is  like  a  glacial  moraine,  com- 
posed of  subangular  stones  and  some  mud.  The 
stones  have  evidently  been  through  a  grinding 
process  and  are  from  very  different  sources,  some 
of  them  from  near-by  and  some  of  them  great 
blocks  from  the  inaccessible  summits  of  distant 
mountains.  But  as  a  whole  they  constitute  noth- 
ing_and  cannot  be  said  to  be  a^nity  ^ 

Aphorisms  or  proverbs  are  frequently  very 
laconic  and  pithy  expressions  of  shrewd  obser- 
vation— "  the  wisdom  of  many  and  the  wit  of 
one."  But  a  collection  of  proverbs  has  no  unity, 
although  interesting  as  a  product  of  the  race 
or  nation.     Usually  half  of  it  is  better  than  the 


20  ELEMENTS    OF    LITERARY    CRITICISM 

whole.  Rochefoucauld's  Maxims  have  a  simi- 
larity like  a  lot  of  marbles  in  the  same  bag,  all 
rubbed  smooth  by  some  mechanical  process. 
These  maxims  have  their  source  in  the  same 
cynical,  shrewd  mind,  and  bear  the  mark  of  the 
French  passion  for  polished  epigrammatic  expres- 
sion and  for  slandering  human  nature  in  an  ele- 
gant manner,  but  they  make  no  whole  except  in 
the  sense  of  being  bound  into  a  book. 

Shakespeare's  Sonnets  seem  to  suggest  division 
into  three  connected  poems,  treating  three  sepa- 
rate phases  of  human  feeling.  If  the  author  had 
undertaken  the  task,  no  doubt  by  rearrangement, 
rejecting  some  sonnets  and  inserting  connecting 
poems,  he  could  have  brought  to  light  two,  pos- 
sibly three,  poetic  Avholes.  For  any  modern  to  do 
more  than  to  suggest  such  a  possibility  is  absurd, 
because  to  create  a  poetic  unity  is  the  highest 
effort  of  the  artistic  mind.  In  this  case  we  must 
be  content  with  great  fragments,  complete  in 
themselves,  and  the  merest  shadows  of  what  the 
wholes  might  have  been. 

As  a  rule,  a  biography  possesses  a  certain 
amount  of  unity,  because  it'is  "the"  life  of  a  single 
man,  usually  of  one  who  is  a  person  of  marked 
individuality.  Sometimes,  when  many  letters  are 
introduced,  biographies  are  little  more  than  col- 
lections of  material.  But  letters  illustrate  char- 
acter, and  when  the  person  writing  the  biography 
has  some  constructive  skill  and  a  vivid  impres- 


UNITY  2 1 

5ion  of  the  character,  and  takes  pains  to  make  his 
connecting  matter  clear  and  refrains  from  per- 
sonal comment,  and,  above  all,  exercises  the  art 
of  selection,  a  *'  Life  and  Correspondence  "  can  be 
made  into  a  whole.  Dr.  Johnson  was  so  peculiar 
and  entertaining  a  man,  and  Boswell  had  such  a 
distinct  character- impression  of  him,  that  Bos- 
well's  Life,  though  little  more  than  scraps  of  con- 
versation, is  a  unity  in  that  it  gives  the  impres- 
sion of  a  living  ligurc  and  a  society.  To  mould 
together  loose  bits  of  anecdote,  correspondence, 
and  events  into  a  life  which  shall  be  a  book  in 
anything  more  than  the  mechanical  sense  is,  in 
reality,  creative  work.  The  \vriter  must  not  be 
afraid  to  tell  the  truth  because  he  fears  it  may 
belittle  his  hero,  and  he  must  know  instinctively 
what  truth  is  characteristic  and  just  where  to 
bring  it  in.  Biography  is  more  dilihcult  than  fic- 
tion. No  one  has  yet  appeared  who  can  do  jus- 
tice to  such  interesting  persons  as  Carlyle,  Cole- 
ridge, or  Shelley.  But  biographies  are  rarely  dull 
because  the  subject  is  already  unified,  and  they 
are  written  around  a  central  figure.  All  of  that 
excellent  series,  "  The  English  Men  of  Letters," 
are  interesting  books  except  Trollope's  Thack- 
eray. So  are  nearly  all  the  volumes  of  English 
Worthies. 

The  principal  divisions  of  unity  are  orgajiic 
unity  and  fojrmal  unity.  Organic  unity  is  a  qual- 
ity of  a  higherorder_than  formal  unity.     Formal 


22  ELEMENTS   OF    LITERARY    CRITICISM 

or  logical  unity  consists  in  adherence  to  a  plan 
and  in  following  out  a  line  of  thought — in  sys- 
tematic adherence  to  an  outline  laid  down.  It  is 
the  result  of  an  intellectual  process  consciously 
gone  through.  Organic  unity,  on  the  other  hand, 
results  from  the  unconscious  working  of  the  ar^ 
tistic  powers.  There  is  not  much  logical  plan  in 
the  Iliad,  and  many  of  tlie  episodes  do  not  seem 
to  lead  up  to  the  central  catastrophe — the  death^ 
of  Hector  ;  but  whoever,  whether  one  man  or 
more,  put  the  twenty  -  four  books  together  has 
succeeded  in  prgdjidunLg  an  organic  unity,  in  which 
all  parts  contribute  to  a  uniffed  impression,  and 
the  picture  of  heroic  life  is  not  blurred  or  con- 
fused by  any  change  of  stand-point  or  by  the  in- 
troduction of  any  inharmonious  elements.  It  is 
difficult  to  believe  that  the  parts  can  be  the  work 
of  different  men,  and  if  they  are  so,  it  must  be 
that  in  the  early  schools  of  poetry  the  individu- 
ality of  the  different  singers  was  much  more  sub- 
ordinate to  the  general  tone  than  is  possible  at 
present.  The  general  proposition  that  organic 
unity  is  the  result  of  the  working  of  a  single 
artistic  mind  is  justified  by  all  we  know  of  mod- 
ern literature,  so  much  so  that  we  cannot  conceive 
of  In  Mcinoriam  or  The  Ring  and  The  Book  being 
written  in  collaboration.  A  book  marked  simply 
by  logical  unity  might  be  written  by  several  peo- 
ple in  collaboration,  for  one  would  be  the  director 
and  lay  out  the  plan  and  the  others  would  be 


UNITY  23 

subordinates  ;  but  organic  unity  results  when  all 
the  details  bear  the  impress  of  the  individual 
imagination,  and  style,  plot,  and  diction  have  the 
incommunicable  mark  of  the  same  spirit. 

LogicaljjnitYj_being  anjjfFm'r  nf  i-hp  jutplWf-^ 
caii5e"attained  by  painstaking  and  practice.  It 
is  the  subject  of  the  well-known  rules  :  put  but 
one  main  assertion  and  appropriate  modifiers  in  a 
sentence,  treat  one  subordinate  topic  in  a  para- 
graph, refer,  when  possible,  in  the  closing  sen- 
tence of^  paragraph  to  the  subject  introduced  in 
the  opening,  arrange  your  paragraphs  according 
to  a  well-considered  plan,  review  the  main  posi- 
tions in  the  close,  give  your  digressions  an  evi- 
dent relation  to  the  main  proposition,  and  many 
others.  The  best  examples  of  logical  unity  are 
arguments  on  the  (]ucsiion  whether  cerlain  as- 
certamed  facts  come  under  certain  rules  of  law. 
Occasionally  these  arguments  are  so  perfect  in 
their  way  as  to  be  almost  entitled  to  be  called  ar- 
tistic. The  proposition  is  stated  clearly  and  di- 
vested of  all  complications  so  as  to  define  the  is- 
sue with  precision.  No  digression  is  allowed  to 
intrude  and  divert  the  mind  from  this  issue. 
The  arguments  are  marshalled  in  order  and  pro- 
duced one  by  one  and  never  repeated.  They  are 
so  arranged  as  to  be  cumulative  and  to  reinforce 
each  other.  The  mind  of  the  listener  is  led  on 
from  pointjto^oint  ;  he  is  personally  conduct^H 
to  the  conclusion.     No  lapses  of  style  into  ob- 


t^t  jK,L,tiMKNTb    OF    LITERARY    CRITICISM 

scurity,  no  elevation  into  the  imaginative,  no  re- 
mote allusions,  weary  his  attention  or  arouse  his 
suspicion.  An  argument  of  this  kind,  and  it  may 
be  occasionally  heard  in  any  of  our  cities,  is  one 
of  the  highest  achievements  of  the  human  mind, 
but  it  is  not  literature,  because  it  is  addressed  to 
the  intellect  solely  and  not  to  the  imagination. 
It  is  an  admirable  example  of  logical  unity,  and 
in  it  our  age  excels  every  one  that  has  preceded. 
In  the  oration  —  in  which  the  feelings  are  ap- 
pealed to  and  the  imagination  aroused — earlier 
ages  have  excelled  us.  The  oration  is  a  literary 
formj  the  argument  is  not.  Nevertheless,  the 
logical  unity  of  the  argumentative  discourse  is 
a  great  quality,  and  commands  our  admiration 
scarcely  less  than  the  artistic  unity  of  the  poem 
or  oration,  and,  besides,  it  is  the  one  form  which 
Americans  have  brought  to  absolute  perfection. 

Logical  and  formal  unity  are  usually  carefully 
observed  even  by  poets  who  attain  artistic  unity 
instinctively.  In  other  words,  poets_of  the  first 
class  are  men  of  intellectual  force,  though  they 
live  in  the  world  of  the  metaphor  rather  than  in 
the  world  of  the  syllogism.  Shelley,  indeed,  gives 
the  impression  of  paying  little  attention  to  the 
development  of  a  preconceived  line  of  thought, 
but  he  was  exceptional  in  many  ways.  Most  of 
Shakespeare's  plays  arc  as  well  marked  by  a  con- 
tinuous, systematic  plan  as  by  the  fusing  of  all 
parts  harmoniously  into  a  dramatic  whole.    They 


UNITY  25 

were  both  thought  out  and  they  grew.  Paradise 
Lost  has  too  much  of  a  plan,  The  Faerie  Queene 
Has  not  enough.  In  one  the  reader  is  conscious 
of  rigidity  ;  in  the  other,  of  formlessness.  As  a 
rule,  logical  unity  should  underlie  artistic  unity, 
though  the  bony  framework  must  not  be  too 
much  in  evidence. 

Omitting  further  reference  to  logical  unity, 
which  any  one  can  attain,  unless  his  mental  op- 
erations are  hopelessly  chaotic,  if  he  is  willing 
to  take  pains  in  thinking  out  his  subject  and  in 
rearranging  and  rewriting  his  matter  whenev^er 
he  feels  certain  that  he  can  in  any  way  render  his 
preconceived  plan  more  lucid  and  coherent,  we 
will  proceed  to  consider  some  of  the  simpler  ele- 
ments of  artistic  unity.  The  fusing  of  subtle  and 
incongruous  elements,  that  which  makes  Hamlet 
and  Lear  consistent  and  congruous  wholes,  is  a 
result  of  artistic  passion  and  earnestness,  and 
cannot  be  analyzed,  but  must  be  felt  by  sym- 
pathy. But  there  are  certain  broad  and  simple 
principles  which  can  be  pointed  out. 

A  unity  of  style  must  be  observed  in  the  entire 
composition.  Narratives  which  are  told  partly 
Jn_  the  first  person  and  partly  in  the  third  are  apt 
to  have  a  disjointed  effect.  This  disjointed  effect 
is  sometimes  felt  when  part  of  the  matter  is  ad- 
dressed to  the  reader  and  part  is  in  the  epistolary 
form  addressed  to  some  imaginary  correspondent, 
The  effect  of  Dickens's  Bleak  House  is  injured  by 


26  ELEMENTS    OP    LITERARY    CRITICISM 

the  use  of  this  double  method,  and  even  in  the 
case  of  so  fine  an  artist  as  Thackeray  his  con- 
fidential remarks  to  the  reader  interrupt  the 
narrative,  although  they  are  nearly  alw'ays  in 
harmony  with  the  tone  of  feeling  the  narrative 
naturally  induces.  Unity  of  style  is  presupposed 
from  the  fact  that  each  man  has  his  own  style  if 
he  has  any  original  power  at  all.  It  is  only  in 
the  earlier  and  formative  stages  that  men  imi- 
tate styles  which  they  admire,  and  at  these  periods 
it  is  quite  proper  that  they  should  imitate.  If  a 
man  has  anything  to  express,  he  soon  attains  an 
individual  manner  of  expression  which  is  a  reflex 
of  character.  Dickens  sometimes  writes  his  first 
chapters,  as  in  Douibey  and  Son  and  in  Martin 
Chuzzlewit,  in  a  different  manner  from  the  body 
of  the  work.  In  the  Pickwick  Papers  the  first 
part  is  an  entirely  different  tone  from  the  rest  of 
the  book.  The  broad  farce,  or  burlesque,  of  the  in- 
troduction characterizes  the  treatment — at  least, 
as  far  as  the  finding  of  the  stone  with  the  inscrip- 
tion, "  Bill  Stumps  his  mark."  Afterwards,  as  the 
characters  formed  themselves  in  the  author's 
mind,  the  tone  subsides  into  that  of  genial  serio- 
comedy.  This  arises  from  the  fact  that  the  book 
was  written  in  serial  form  and  begun  without  a 
definite  conception  of  the  treatment.  In  this 
case  it  is  but  a  small  matter,  as  the  book  is 
throughout  a  delightful  specimen  of  humor,  but 
the  transition  from  the  pure  comic  to  the  serio- 


UNITY  27 

comic  stand-point  is  apt  to  cause  an  unpleasant 
jar  to  the  artistic  sensibility.  The  transition 
from  the  humorous  to  the  pathetic,  on  the  con 
trary,  is  a  perfectly  natural  one,  for  humor  and 
pathos  He  very  close  together.  The  power  of 
Cervantes  is  shown  by  the  fact  that  with  all  his 
depth  of  suggestion  he  holds  uniformly  to  one 
style  and  one  relation  to  his  subject-matter  from 
beginning  to  end  of  his  book,  never  allowing  the 
serious  thought  quite  to  arrest  the  smile,  nor  the 
smile  to  pass  into  laughter. 

The  higher  qualities  of  style  :  the  slight,  almost 
imperceptible  changes  to  suit  the  changing  situ- 
ations, the  delicate  shades  which  give  the  atmos- 
phere, have  iclaiiMii  to  a  higher  unity,  the^ unity 
between  form  and  thing  signified,  and  are  among 
the  greater  qualities  of  the  literary  aft.     They 

^must  be  felt.  They  can  hardly  be  instanced  ex- 
cept in  a  long  treatise  on  some  particular  Avork. 
Miss  Sarah  Jewett's  sketches  of  New  England 
life  are  beautiful  examples  of  this  quality.  The 
qualities  which  constitute  the  writer's  literar} 
touch  cannot  be  imitated.  A  skilful  mimic  may 
reproduce  a  few  of  the  notes,  and  we  may  think 
for  an  instant  that  we  have  heard  the  genuine 
voice.  Verbal  peculiarities  which  lie  on  the  sur- 
face can  be  detached  and  copied,  but  the  essence 

_of^  style  is  not  verbal  form,  it  is  congruity  be- 
tween the  verbal  form  and  the  thought,  the  tone. 
It  is  a  harmony  between  a  number  of  elements, 


28  ELEMENTS    OF    LITERARV    CRITICISM 

and  in  really  good  style  one  of  the  elements  is 
intimately  related  to  the  structure  of  the  mind, 
which  is  different  in  each  individual  and  is  the 
result  of  slow  individual  development.  In  this 
sense  style  is  vital  and  personal.  If  any  one 
should  try  to  imitate  Carlyle's  or  even  Macaulay's 
style,  he  would  find  that  he  could  appropriate 
only  the  outside  of  it.  Correctness  can  be  ac- 
quired by  painstaking,  but  "  style,"  like  the  voice, 
"  is  the  man,"  and  it  is  developed  only  by  prac- 
tice. In  the  fullest  meaning  of  unity  of  style, 
unity  of  stand-point  and  of  personal  imaginative 
conception,  not  merely  a  similarity  of  literary 
manner,  is  embraced. 

Unity  of  subject,  so  necessary  to  a  logical  dis- 
course, is  not  indispensable  to  literature.  Thus, 
a  man  may  digress  from  his  subject  and  bring  in 
apparently  irrelevant  matter,  may  seem  to  wan- 
der, and  still  by  unity  of  style  and  stand-point 
give  his  product  literary  distinction.  He  may 
ramble,  one  thing  suggesting  another,  and  still 
look  at  everything  from  the  same  mental  point 
of  view  and  impress  his  own  personality  upon 
everything  he  says,  and  in  the  end  attain,  appar- 
ently without  design,  the  effect  of  unity.  Emer- 
son's Essays  have  little  logical  unity — they  are 
quite  destitute  of  formal  unity,  there  are  no  para- 
graphs headed  a,  b,  and  c,  but  it  is  always  the 
serene,  pure  Emerson  who  speaks ;  always  the 
spiritual  meaning  of  things  that  are  looked  for, 


UNITY  29 

and  always  the  same  flow  of  genial,  polished  epi- 
grams. There  is  unit}-  of  purpose,  of  style,  and 
of  stand-point.  The  unity  of  subject  consists  pret- 
ty much  in  the  heading  "  Nature  "  or  "  Genius  " 
at  the  top  of  the  paper.  He  starts  from  his  text 
and  proceeds  where  his  "  ghost  leads  him,"  tack- 
ing about  in  the  sea  of  thought  and  not  troubling 
himself  about  voyaging  to  any  certain  point. 
But  no  one  would  accuse  Emerson  of  a  lack  of 
unity,  so  strong  is  the  unity  of  style  and  the  unity 
of  treatment  in  all  he  has  written.  But  it  is 
doubtful  if  another  as  weighty  a  writer  could  be 
named  whose  method  is  so  little  formal. 

The  most  difficult  kind  of  writing  in  which  to 
preserve  the  unities  is  ajiarrative.  It  must  of 
course  have  unity  of  subject,  and  as  far  as  the 
subject  is  the  lives  of  a  certain  set  of  persons  it 
is  not  difficult  to  attain.  Intrusive  characters 
can  be  shown  the  door  promptly.  It  sometimes 
does  happen  that  a  subordinate  character  assumes 
importance  in  the  author's  imagination,  becomes 
interesting,  and  is  brought  in  too  frequently.  The 
character  group  thereby  becomes  disturbed  or 
out  of  perspective.  The  exuberant  fancy  of 
Dickens  leads  him  to  fall  into  this  error  some- 
times. The  short  story  is  of  course  not  liable  to 
this  fault.  The  Greeks  were  wise  in  restricting 
their  dramas  to  a  short  story  having  mechanical 
unity:  a  small  group  of  people,  a  single  incident, 
a  catastrophe,  one  stage  or  place  of  action,  and  a 


30  ELEMENTS    OF    LITERARY    CRITICISM 

single  day  or  uninterrupted  period  of  time.  By- 
restricting  their  narratives  to  the  denouement  in 
this  rigid  way,  unity  of  effect  was  insured.  They 
made,  as  they  did  in  their  temple,  a  whole  out  of 
a  few  parts,  all  carefully  proportioned,  and  con- 
sidered with  reference  to  their  relation  to  the 
whole.  To  compose  the  columns  and  cornice  and 
pediment  of  the  Grecian  Sacred  House  into  a  per- 
fect harmony  was  an  artistic  achievement  which 
has  ever  since  compelled  the  admiration  of  those 
best  fitted  to  estimate  it.  But  it  argues  a  more 
j)owerful  artistic  energy  to  put  together  the  mul- 
tifarious and  seemingly  incongruous  details  of  a 
Gothic  cathedral  so  as  to  create  a  unified  impres- 
sion. There  is  a  bewildering  multiplicity  of  or- 
nament, in  which  the  grotesque  and  horrible  are 
close  to  the  simple  and  pathetic.  Yet  all  the  ele- 
ments— some  tawdry  and  some  magnificent,  some 
obscene  and  some  delicately  reverential — are  made 
parts  of  a  whole  ;  that  is,  the  cathedral.  That  this 
should  be  true  the  successive  master-builders 
:nust  have  been  unconsciously  under  the  domin- 
ion of  the  same  general  conception  of  life,  where- 
as of  the  Greek  builders  we  can  only  say  that 
they  were  subject  to  the  same  particular  con- 
ception of  beauty,  and  life  is  more  than  beauty. 
xFor  the  same  reason  we  can  say  that  the  imagi- 
nation must  have  worked  at  a  high  temperature 
to  bind  together  into  a  unity  the  mukifarious 
details  of  impulse  and  character  in  Hamlet  or  the 


UNITY  31 

incongruous  elements  of  dignity,  degradation, 
loyalty,  and  selfishness  in  Lear.  Since  the  Chris- 
tian era  human  character  has  developed  new 
elements — pity,  humility,  enthusiasm  for  human- 
ity, and  *Jiumo5 — and  as  character  is  enriched  and 
broadened,  so  must  art,  its  reflex,  develop  from 
the  massive  simplicity  of  ^schylus  to  the  multi- 
form unity  of  Shakespeare. 

Nevertheless,  Aristotle's  rules  are  as  valid  as 
ever — one  day,  on'F'^ptece,  one  action.  The  first 
two  rules  must  be  interpreted  by  the  fact  that  the 
Greek  drama  admitted  the  chorus,  which  asked 
about  or  commented  on  events  that  were  not 
presented,  and  that  had  happened  long  before  or 
in  distant  places.  The  important  action  is  still 
the  catastrophe.  It  is  a  unit,  and  there  must  be 
but  one  culmination  and  all  must  lead  up  to  it. 
In  her  shorter  tales — Si/as  Afarner,  Adam  Bede, 
Scenes  of  Clerical  Life — George  Eliot  shows  her- 
self an  admirable  constructor.  Daniel  Dero>ida, 
'  however,  is  spoiled  by  two  culminations.  The 
lives  of  Gwendolen  Harleth  and  Daniel  Deronda 
are  two  separate  streams  of  interest,  never  merged 
itfto  one.  The  tragedy  of  Gwendolen's  marriage 
to  Grandcourt  is  absorbing  and  dreadful,  com- 
pelling pity,  almost  terror.  After  that  the  fate 
of  Daniel  and  Mirah  is  unimportant  and  unin 
teresting.  The  Merchant  of  Venice  also  comes 
perilously  near  to  the  defect  of  a  divided  interest. 
But  the  Jessica  and  Lorenzo  story^fs  skilfully  in- 


32  ELEMENTS    OF    LITERARY    CRITICISM 

terwoven  with  the  main  plot,  and,  above  all,  is 
kept  subordinate,  and  the  characters  are  slighter. 
Shakespeare,  by  his  profusion  of  color,  almost  too 
lavish  sometimes,  can  make  details  interesting, 
even  if  so  irrelevant  as  to  distract  the  attention. 
But  in  OtJicllo,  Lear,  and  Macbeth  the  scenes 
march.  Their  order  cannot  be  changed.  Each 
heightens  the  last  and  leads  to  the  next.  Events 
move  with  remorseless  logic.  The  mutilated  ver- 
sions^f  the  modern  stage  give  no  impression  of 
the  power  of  tlie  whole,  fqrjhe  unity  is  lost,  and 
the  spectator's  memory  must  suggest  as  much  as 
his  imagniation  supplies  when  he  sees  a  headless 
statue  of  Phidias. 

The  unity  of  plot  is  a  complex  unity — a  unity 
of  a  high  order.  The  lesser  unities  of  subject, 
treatment,  and  stand-point  are  of  course  implied. 
The  series  of  events  and  interactions  which  con- 
stitute a  plot  are  the  results  partly  of  human 
wills,  partly  of  the  laws  oX  cause  and  effect,  physi- 
cal and  moral,  which  govern  the  world,  and  partly 
of  the  environment. of  habit,  prejudice,  and  tradi- 
tion which  surround  every  individual — that  is  to 
sayToTf  that  part  of  the  ^social  order  to. the  influ- 
ence of  which  he  has  been  subjected.  The  con- 
struction of  a  plot  is  therefore  dependent  on  the 
writer's  instinctive  appreciation  of  the  relative 
strength  of  these  agencies  ;  and  men  usually  ex- 
aggerate the  importance  of  some  of  them,  some- 
times over-estimating  the  power  of  an  independent 


UNITY  23 

will ;  sometimes  forgetting  that  the  moral  law, 
though  its  action  may  be  suspended,  is  never  en- 
tirely set  aside,  and  that  its  suspensions  are  tem- 
porary and  episodical ;  and  sometimes  giving  the 
social  forces  an  undue  control  in  their  estimate 
of  the  individual  life.  n_an_erroneQiis_CQn.ception 
of  the  balance  of  these  forces  is  tenaciously  held 
by  a  writer,  his  plot  may  have  unity,  but  must 
lack  adequate  truth.  If  he  makes  cKanges  in  his 
conception  of  the  balances  of  causation  in  the 
progress  of  a  plot,  the  reader  becomes  aware  of 
something  artistically  unsatisfactory.  If  some 
physical  caTastrophe  is  forced  to  take  place — the 
opportune  death  of  a  troublesome  character — or 
if  the  individual  will  is  represented  as  yielding 
in  some  position  where  our  knowledge  of  human 
nature  teaches  us  it  would  be  unaffected,  we  feel 
a  sense  of  an  illegitimate  combination  of  the  nor- 
mal and  the  abnormal.  In  early  literature  so 
little  wa3  known  of  the  unvarying,  mechanical 
character  of  physical  laws  that  writers  did  not 
hesitate  to  resort  to  a  miracle  or  to  set  causation 
aside  in  one  province  entirely.  This  is  no  longer 
allowable,  and,  in  consequence,  the  ditificulty  of 
constructing  a  consistent  plot  is  vastly  increased. 
Events  must  be  at  least  possible,  and  their  se- 
quences should  be  probable.  They  must  be  star- 
tling and  alarming,  because  we  feel  that  we  our- 
selves might  be  caught  up  in  a  similar  train,  but 
not  contrary  to  all  experience.  No  modern  nov- 
3 


34  ELEMENTS    OF    LITERARY    CRITICISM 

elist  would  dare  to  represent  his  hero  as  beheaded 
and  brought  to  life  again  after  the  fashion  of  the 
early  romancers.  But  some  of  them  do  not  hesi- 
tate to  bring  a  man  morally  dead  back  to  moral 
.  health — a  miracle  as  much  out  of  the  question  as 

ti\e  physical  one.  In  early  times  Minerva  could 
set  aside  the  laws  of  nature  and  Jupiter  could 
interfere  and  reverse  her  work  ;  yet  even  he  was 
powerless  to  control  the  Fates.  Now  the  Fates 
only  are  left,  and  their  actions  are  obscure  and 
infinitely  harder  to  comprehend  than  that  of  the 
picturesque  and  irascible  gods.  A  plot  must  be 
a  piece  of  life.  It  has  unity  when  it  is  an  accu- 
rate copy  ;  consequently  a  very  small  piece  must 
be  taken,  for  no  one  person  can  comprehend  more 
than  a  very  small  part  of  life  ;  but  it  must  be  a 
piece  of  the  whole,  a  unity  taken  out  of  the  great 
unity.  Therefore  a  plot,  or  a  sequence  of  events 
bound  together  by  the  contradictory  and  inter- 
woven laws  of  necessity  and  freedom,  is  one  of 
the  most  difficult  achievements  of  the  human 
mind. 

Of  the  moderns,  Hawthorne  possesses  in  a  re- 
markable degree  the  power  of  impressing  unity 
on  his  creations.  His  hand  is  firm.  He  never 
wavers  in  style,  stand-point,  aim,  or  subject  by  a 
hair's-breadth.  His  glots  are  simple,  his  motives 
more  so  ;  in  fact,  no  people  ever  were  dominated 
by  so  few  impulses  as  are  the  characters  in  Haw- 
thorne's romances.     There  is  something  Greek  in 


UNITY  35 

their  simplicity,  although  they  are  as  unlike  a 
Greek  conception  of  humanity  as  are  Caliban  or 
Ariel.  But  they  never  waver.  Such  as  the  author 
conceived  them  in  the  first  chapter,  they  remain 
to  the  end.  There  is  no  growth  or  development 
of  character.  This  gives  his  tales  an  atmosphere 
which  is  never  blown  away  by  any  nineteenth- 
century  wind,  and  a  unity  which  insures  them  a 
place  in  the  literature  which  endures.  There  is  a 
certain  sameness  about  his  style  which  might  be- 
come monotonous  in  spite  of  its  wonderful  charm, 
and  a  limited  experience  of  life  which  might  be- 
come uninteresting,  and  an  impress  of  a  poverty- 
stricken  and  repellent  external  world  which  might 
become  disheartening,  but  the  unity  is  so  thor- 
oughly artistic  that  the  pleasure  received  far  out- 
weighs the  annoyance  which  is  caused  by  the 
depressing  and  fatalistic  atmosphere  which  en- 
velops some  of  his  romances. 

Unity  alone  will  not  give  a  composition  excel- 
lence. Unity  of  style  may  be  the  sameness  of  a 
bad  or  affected  style.  Ujiity  of  subject  may  con- 
sist in  a  succession  of  uninteresting,  insignificant 
events.  Unity  of  characters  may  cover  a  crowd 
oF  commonplace  individuals.  Unity  of  stand- 
point may  mean  a  near-sighted  and  commercial 
view  of  the  world  of  men  and  things,  and  unity 
of  purpose  an  unchanging  determination  to  make 
prominent  the  narrow  prejudices  of  the  writer. 
A  writer  cannot  make   a   great  thing  of   petty 


36  ELEMENTS    OF    LITERARY    CRITICISM 

parts,  nor  in  a  small  way.  There  must  be  the 
great  conception  and  the  broad  treatment.  Unity 
results  from  a  human  intelligence  working  on 
matter,  or  on  the  reflex  of  the  material  world  we 
call  -thought,  and  when  an  artistic  intelligence 
works  on  a  subject  worthy  of  it  the  product  re- 
ceives form  and  permanence.  The  unity  is  then 
fundamental,  and  gives  a  life  which  men  recognize 
when  they  read  the  book  or  enter  the  temple  long 
afterwards. 

Unity  of  stand-point  implies  unity  of  treat- 
ment. A  violation  of  this  unity  is  in  such  bad 
taste  that  it  is  avoided  instinctively  in  short 
poems.  Such  an  error  is  like  a  distinctly  false 
note  in  music.     Suppose  a  poem  begins  : 

"  There  was  a  maiden  lived  by  the  sea,  • 
And  she  was  fair  as  fair  could  be," 

we  perceive  at  once  that  the  writer  has  adopted 
the   manner  of  the    ballad.     He  must  continue 
artless,   unsentimental,    unreflective,    and    must 
keep  to  the  simplest,  most  natural  emotions. 
Now,  if  we  find  a  line  like  this  : 

"  She  was  a  girl  of  the  wild-flower  kind," 

we  are  unpleasantly  affected,  because  a  more 
modern  way  of  looking  at  the  subject  —  a  sort 
of  affected  rusticity — is  assumed,  an  attitude  of 
pleased  superiority,  patronizingly  sensible  of  the 
beauty  of  nature.     The  word  "  girl "  starts   an 


UNITY  37 

entirely  different  train  of  thought  and  associa- 
tion from  the  word  "  maiden."  If  after  this  he 
should  bring  in  the  word  "  lady  "  the  effect  would 
be  still  worse,  because  he  would  have  gone  over 
to  the  stand-point  of  the  vers  de  socictt'^%z\\2iX\1, 
insincere,  and  artificial.  No  instance  of  such  a 
shocking  violation  of  the  unity  of  stand-point  can 
be  found  in  literature,  and  tlie  example  is  in- 
vented to  illustrate  the  possibilities  of  error.  In 
the  work  of  minor  poets  we  are  occasionally  con- 
scious of  a  false  note  which  on  examination  will 
be  found  to  be  due  to  a  lack  of  unity  of  stand- 
point and  treatment. 

The  following  poem  preserves  all  these  unities, 
as,  indeed,  does  everything  written  by  Browning  : 

SOLILOQUY    OF     THE    SPANISH    CLOISTER 

"  Gr-r-r — there  go,  my  heart's  abhorrence  ! 

Water  your  damned  flower-pots,  do! 

If  hate  killed  men,  Brother  Lawrence, 

God's  blood,  would  not  mine  kill  you? 
What.'  your  myrtle-bush  wants  trimming.? 

Oh,  that  rose  has  prior  claims — 
Needs  its  leaden  vase  filled  brimming? 
Hell  dry  you  up  with  its  flames! 

"  At  the   meal  we  sit  together : 
Salve  tibi!  I  must  hear 
Wise  talk  of  the  kind  of  weather. 
Sort  of  season,  time  of  year; 


:i88ja2 


38  ELEMENTS   OF    LITERARY    CRITICISM 

Not  a  plenteous  cork-crop ;  scarcely 
Dare  one  hope  oak-galls,  I  doubt ; 

What's  the  Latin  natne  for  'parsley'? 

Wliat's  the  Greek  name  for  Swine's-snouti 


Whew!  we'll  have  our  platter  burnished, 

Laid  with  care  on  our  own  shelf ! 
With  a  fire-new  spoon  we're  furnished, 

And  a  goblet  for  ourself, 
Rinsed  like  something  sacrificial 

Ere  "tis  fit  to  touch  our  chaps — 
Marked  with  L  for  our  initial  ! 

(He— he!     There  his  lily  snaps!) 

Saint,  forsooth  !  while  brown   Dolores 

Squats  outside  the  Convent  bank, 
With  Sanchicha,  telling  stories, 

Steeping  tresses  in  the  tank, 
Blue-black,  lustrous,  thick  like  horsehairs.. 

Can't  I  see  his  dead  eye  glow, 
Bright  as  'twere  Barbary  corsair's? 

(That  is,  if  he'd  let  it  show !) 

'  When  he  finishes  refection. 

Knife  and  fork  he  never  lays 
Cross-wise,  to  my  recollection. 

As  do  I,  in  Jcsu's  praise. 
I,  the  Trinity  illustrate. 

Drinking  watered  orange-pulp— 
In  three  sips  the  Arian  frustrate; 

While  he  drains  his  at  one  gulp. 


UNITY  39 

"Oh,  those  melons!     If  he's  able 

We're  to  have  a  feast!  so  nice! 
One  goes  to  the  abbot's  table, 

All  of  us  get  each  a  slice. 
How  go  on  your  flowers?    None  double? 

Not  one  fruit-sort  can  you  spy? 
Strange  !— And   I,  too,  at  such  trouble, 

Keep  'em  close-nipped  on  the  sly! 


There's  a  great  text  in  Galatians, 

Once  you  trip  on  it,  entails 
Twenty-nine  distinct  damnations, 

One  sure,  if  another  fails : 
If  I  trip  him  just  a-dying, 

Sure  of  heaven  as  sure  can  be. 
Spin   him  round  and  send  him  flying 

Off  to  hell,  a  Manichee? 


Or,  my  scrofulous  French  novel. 

On  gray  paper  with  blunt  type! 
Simply  glance  at  it,  you  grovel 

Hand  and  foot  in   Belial's  gripe: 
If  I  double  down  its  pages 

At  the  woful  sixteenth  print. 
When  he  gathers  his  greengages, 

Ope  a  sieve  and  slip  it  in't? 

'  Or.  there's  Satan  !— one  might  venture 
Pledge  one's  soul  to  him,  yet  leave 
Such  a  flaw  in  the  indenture 
As  he'd  miss  till,  past  retrieve, 


4©  ELEMENTS    OF    LITERARY    CRITICISM 

Blasted  lay  that  rose-acacia 

We're  so  proud  of!     Hy,  Zy.  Hine.  . 

'St,  there's  Vespers  !     Plena  gratia, 
Ave,   Virgo  !    Gr-r-r — you  swine !" 


Browning's  idea  is  not  easy  to  catch,  until,  as 
Mr.  Hutton  says,  "  we  see  that  he  is  painting  the 
jealous  disgust  and  tricky  spite  felt  by  a  passion- 
ate, self  -  indulging,  sensual,  superstitious  monk 
for  the  pale,  vegetating,  contented  sort  of  saint 
who  takes  to  gardening  and  'talks  crops'  at  the 
monastery  table."  Viewed  as  a  dramatic  frag- 
ment, we  feel  that  every  verse  expresses  the  un- 
reasoning dislike  of  a  low,  cunning  nature  for  a 
harmless  and  blameless  one,  with  which  it  is 
forced  to  consort.  Every  verse  conveys  exactly 
the  same  impression  as  the  whole.  Every  word 
is  what  might  come  from  the  heart  of  the  envi- 
ous, spiteful  speaker.  We  might  possibly  object 
to  the  word  "scrofulous,"  applied  to  the  novel,  as 
a  sort  of  literary  adjective  not  likely  to  be  used 
by  so  brutish  a  man  as  the  speaker,  but  it  would 
be  to  "consider  too  curiously  to  consider  thus." 
The  poem  has  the  vigor  of  tmity  of  every  kind 
impressed  on  it  by  the  strong  man  Avho  wrote  it. 

The  poem  quoted  is,  however,  composed  of  few 
elements.  A  dramatic  monologue  presents  but 
a  single  mood  of  a  single  speaker's  mind.  Nar- 
rative details  a  succession  of  events  succeeding 
each  other  by  natural  law,  modified  by  the  agen- 


UNITY  41 

cies  of  a  set  of  people.  The  unity  in  a  narrative 
is,  therefore,  a  more  complex  one.  There  must 
be  a  harmony  in  the  group  of  actors  who,  though 
diverse  as  individuals,  belong  to  the  same  gen- 
eral period  of  human  development.  There  must 
also  be  a  harmony  beLween  the  individuals  and 
their  surroundings  and  situations,  unless  the  tone 
of  the  narrative  be  grotesque  or  comic.  There 
must  also  be  a  harmony  between  the  actions  of 
the  group  and  the  general  laws  which  govern 
human  actions.  The  course  of  events  must  be 
natural.  The  superficial  motives  of  men — habit, 
personal  vanity,  family  affection,  self  -  interest, 
and  sexual  attraction — are  very  evident  in  any 
community,  and  govern  ordinary  action,  and  can 
be  studied  from  models  by  every  one.  But  there 
are  many  more  complicated  motives  at  work  in 
men's  characters,  prompting  action  frequently  in 
direct  contradiction  to  the  more  superficial  mo- 
tives. These  hidden  motives  cannot  be  studied 
because  we  are  unconscious  of  them;  they  can 
only  be  divined.  Among  these  are  :  intellectual 
pride,  loyalty  to  the  race,  reverence  for  universal 
law,  enthusiasm  for  an  unattainable  ideal,  not 
to  speak  of  the  opposite  of  these  :  the  brutish  in- 
stincts of  cruelty  and  destruction,  that  we  have 
inherited  from  the  brute  side  of  our  ancestry.  The 
stronger  a  man's  nature  is,  the  more  apt  are  the 
deep,  unconscious  motives  to  come  to  the  surface. 
The  writer  who  divines  the  circumstances  which 


42  ELEMENTS    OF    LITERARY    CRITICISM 

bring  into  action  motives  of  this  obscure  character 
attains  the  highest  unity,  because  there  is  a  har- 
mony between  the  actions  of  his  characters  and 
the  more  complex  laws  of  human  nature.  He  is 
natural,  though  he  puts  on  the  same  canvas 
lago  and  Desdemojia,  Cloten  and  Imogen,(^ali- 
ban  and  Miranda, JvEephistophiles  and  Margue- 
rite. ^ 

By  unity  of  the  group  of  characters  is  not 
meant  that  they  should  all  be  of  the  same  type 
or  that  they  should  all  belong  to  the  same  stratum 
of  society,  since  the  chief  interest  of  a  narrative 
comes  from  the  contrast  of  character  and  the 
clashing  of  wills  incited  by  different  habits  and 
antecedent  circumstance.  Even  types  from  wide- 
ly diverse  but  contemporaneous  civilization  may 
be  represented,  as  in  Kipling's  tales,  with  strik- 
ing artistic  effect,  if  the  perception  of  the  real 
nature  of  each  is  profound  and  accurate.  But 
to  put  a  man  with  the  peculiar  cast  of  thought 
which  marks  the  present  on  the  same  canvas  with 
reproductions  of  the  life  of  earlier  centuries  dis- 
torts the  character  group,  unless  the  spirit  of  the 
past  is  apprehended  as  only  the  highest  imagina- 
tive genius  can  apprehend  it.  There  is  a  unity 
between  the  character  group  and  their  environ- 
ment in  The  House  of  the  Seven  Gables  which  is 
satisfying  to  the  artistic  sense.  The  people  be- 
long together  and  to  the  early  New  England  as 
the  author  understood  it.     Such  a  unity  as  this 


UNITY  43 

is  one  of  the  constituents  of  true  beauty.  Sup- 
pose that  one  of  Howells's  people,  admirable  in 
his  own  place,  were  intruded,  the  effect  would 
be  very  disagreeable,  to  say  the  least.  In  Tenny- 
son's Idyls  of  the  King  the  ethical  tone  of  mod- 
ern times  is  jumbled  up  with  the  simplicity  of 
the  traditionary,  heroic,  ethical  tone.  Tennyson 
has  the  Englishman's  firmly  based  ideas  about 
the  marriage  contract,  the  duties  of  an  aristoc- 
racy, the  relation  of  a  king  to  society,  the  obliga- 
tions of  a  gentleman,  which  are  all  entirely  foreign 
to  the  spirit  of  the  original.  At  the  same  time 
he  had  the  poet-scholar's  conception  of  the  knight, 
his  loyalty,  his  standard  of  duty,  and  his  ideal  of 
woman.  These  two  are  irreconcilable,  but,  as  the 
poet  was  dominated  by  both,  a  lack  of  unity  of 
conception  results.  The  characters  all  respond 
to  motives,  some  of  which  are  marked  by  the 
noble,  childlike  simplicity  of  the  heroic  age,  and 
others  belong  to  the  ideal  gentleman  of  the  nine- 
teenth century.  Arthur's  character,  in  particu- 
lar, is  compounded  of  incongruous  traits  and  gives 
the  impression  of  a  poorly  dressed  actor.  The 
entire  epic  seems  like  a  masquerade,  in  spite  of 
the  noble,  artistic  quality  of  the  verse.  It  is  this 
lack  of  unity  rather  than  the  wavering  between 
the  allegorical  and  the  epic  stand-point  which 
weakens  the  poem  as  a  whole.  In  The  Princess^ 
where  the  treatment  is  frankly  ideal,  the  incon- 
gruity between  the  modern  sentiment  and  the 


44  ELEMENTS    OF    LITEKARV    CRITICISM 

semi-chivalric  setting  is  easily  overlooked.  The 
tale  is  Tennyson's  own,  and  we  are  willing  that 
he  should  handle  it  as  he  likes,  but  the  story  of 
Arthur  is  national  and  can  hardly  be  compounded 
with  modern  conventional  ethics. 

There  is  another  beautiful  reproduction  of  the 
antique,  Walter  Pater's  Marius  the  Epicurean, 
perhaps  the  most  poetic  book  of  the  latter  part 
of  the  century,  where  the  author  has  recreated 
the  past  and  then  set  his  own  acquaintances  in 
it,  for  Marius  and  his  friends  Flavian  and  Cor- 
nelius are  reproductions  of  certain  refined  and 
charming  types  of  the  Oxford  student.  This, 
too,  is  ideal,  but  the  incongruity  between  the 
actors  and  the  historical  setting  is  readily  over- 
looked. Had  they  been  semi-historical  person- 
ages, characters  evolved  by  early  myth  or  legend, 
we  could  not  do  so. 

In  this  age  of  complex  and  refined  perception 
it  is  a  difficult  matter  to  revivify  an  ancient  civ- 
ilization. It  is  difficult  even  to  create  a  modern 
environment  and  a  group  of  characters  harmoniz- 
ing with  it.  Goethe  never  fails,  nor  does  Victor 
Hugo  or  Tolstoi.  Thackeray  in  his  eighteenth- 
century  novels  has  succeeded  in  creating  a  past 
harmonious  with  his  characters.  Vanity  Fair  we 
may  believe  he  drew  largely  from  observation, 
from  the  study  of  models,  but  Henry  Esmond 
is  a  creation  of  the  imagination  kindled  by  the 
study  of  old  books,  pictures,  and  buildings.    Both 


UNITY  45 

these  are  perfect  e,\'am[>l'.s  of  literary  unity,  but 
the  latter  is  the  more  wonderful  work  of  art  be- 
cause experience  could  aid  less  in  its  construction. 

If  supernatural  agencies  are  introduced  they 
must  harmonize  with  the  natural  ones  and  with 
the  general  tone  of  the  surroundings,  otherwise 
the  incongruity  becomes  comic.  Hamlet,  the 
Ghost,  and  the  bastions  of  Elsinore  are  all  of  a 
piece,  and  so  are  the  witches,  the  blasted  heath, 
and  the  imaginativ'e,  unscrupulous,  unstable  sol- 
dier whose  moral  indifference  the  embodiments 
of  evil  address  with  the  certainty  of  meeting  a 
response.  Hamlet  is  a  prince  and  his  father's 
spirit  is  the  "  Royal  Dane."  Ariel  addressing 
Hamlet,  or  Puck  teasing  Macbeth  would  have  been 
as  much  out  of  plag^  as  Jupiter  in  Boston  or  "Pan 
in  Wall  Street."  (jThe  intrusion  of  the  supernat- 
ural into  the  commonplace  as  in  modern  spiritu- 
alism is  very  bad  art!j  The  first  part  of  the  story 
of  Trilby  is  admirable,  worthy  of  Thackeray  at 
his  best.  But  the  supernatural  element,  the  hyp- 
notic possession  of  the  heroine  by  an  evil  nature, 
which  might  have  harmonized  with  some  tale  of 
mediaeval  artist  life,  is  entirely  out  of  keeping 
with  the  realistic  presentation  of  Paris  thirty 
years  ago.  Hawthorne  uses  this  idea  of  hypnot- 
ic possession  in  TJie  BlitJicdale  Romance  in  such 
a  way  as  to  avoid  all  unpleasant  effect  or  sug- 
gestion of  the  impossible. 

Unityresults  when  things  are   put   together 


46  ELEMENTS    OF    LITERARY    CRITICISM 

that  belonjy  too^ether,  when  the  elementary  parts 
harmonize  and  are  interrelated  as  the  parts  of 
any  material  product  of  natural  growth  are :  a 
plant,  a  tree,  a  wild  animal.  These  things  are 
organic,  arranged  by  slow  -  working,  inexorable 
laws.  The  imity  of  a  literary  production  is  high- 
er than  theirs  because  its  cause  is  a  mind  work- 
ing on  ideas  instead  of  a  force  working  on  mat- 
ter, but  it  is  rarely  so  perfect,  for  nature  is  a 
better  workman  than  man.  and  sets  the  copies 
for  him. 


CHAPTER    III 
THE    POWER    OP    DRAWING    CHARACTER 

The  second  of  the  literary  powers  is  the  ability 
to  create  by  narration  or  description,  in^the_mind 
of  the  reader,  an  idea  or  impression  of  a  human 
character,  as  an  agent  or  force,  as  distinguished 
from  a  machine  or  automaton..  When  we  have 
read  a  biography,  or  a  novel,  or  a  poem  of  action, 
we  form  in  our  minds  a  notion,  more  or  less 
clear,  of  the  personages  of  the  story.  Sometimes 
we  feel  they  are  very  much  like  our  every-day 
acquaintances  ;  sometimes  that  they  are  extreme- 
ly odd  and  peculiar  people,  whose  actions  are 
unaccountable  on  any  theory  of  human  nature  ; 
sometimes  we  feel  that  we  know  them  very  well  ; 
sometimes  that  they  are  obscure  and  baffling. 
Sometimes  we  feel  that  we  know  only  a  part  of 
their  characters,  and  that  there  is  more  in  them 
than  appears  ;  sometimes  that  one  or  two  of  the 
characters  are  ideal,  that  they  act  habitually 
from  the  higher,  unselfish  motives  for  which  we 
have  a  great  reverence,  although  we  do  not  allow 
such  motives  much  weight  in  our  ordinary  con- 


48  ELEMENTS    OF    LITERARY    CRITICISM 

duct,  and  are  only  vaguely  conscious  of  their 
presence  with  us  at  times.  In  some  cases  we 
become  much  interested  in  the  characters  in  a 
book,  and  follow  their  fortunes  with  lively  inter- 
est for  their  own  sakes,  in  others  they  are  dread- 
fully commonplace  and  tiresome.  Sometimes  we 
find  we  can  form  a  visual  image  of  these  imag- 
inary beings,  occasionally  a  very  sharp  and  dis- 
tinct image,  and  sometimes  the  personal  appear- 
ance of  the  hero  in  whose  fortune  we  have  been 
interested  is  uncertain,  although  his  character, 
the  man  himself,  is  very  definite.  All  these  ef- 
fects on  us  are  the  results  of  the  writer's  art,  of 
his  power  of  conceiving  and  making  real  a  char- 
acter reacting  on  our  insatiable  interest  in  human 
beings.  We  will  consider  very  generally,  first,  the 
greatness  and  importance  of  this  power;  next,  its 
Historical  development ;  and,  lastly,  the  different 
modes  or  methods  of  its  exercise  by  artists  of  dif- 
ferent types. 

It  can  hardly  be  doubted  that  the  power  of 
conceiving  and  drawing  character  is  higher  than 
any  strictly  intellectual  attribute  of  man.  The 
possession  of  it  implies  sympathy  with  humanity, 
keen  observation,  humor,  and  a  faculty  to  which 
common  consent  gives  the  name  of  creative.  It 
cannot  be  imparted  by  training,  and  it  is__hjLjio 
means  dependent  on  life  experience.  The  per- 
sonality or  real  character  of  a  man  is  something 
subtle,  hidden,  and  elusive,  and  the  personality  of 


THE  POWER  OF  DRAWING  CHARACTER     49 

a  woman  is  something  even  more  baffling,  com- 
plicated, and  unanalyzable.  This  personality  ex- 
presses itself  through  thej)hysical  body,  of  which 
it  is  the  centre,^  by  the  means  of  many  thousand 
delicate  and  scarcely  perceptible  modifications. 
It  also  impresses  itself  on  other  persons,  and  also 
on  animals  by  its  totality,  in  an  entirely  inex- 
plicable way,  through  hidden  and  mysterious 
channels.  This  we  sometimes  try  to  explain  by 
saying  that  a  certain  person  possesses  animal 
magnetism.     He  attracts  us  by  virtue  of  his  per- 

_jonality  wj.tho'ut  contact  or  any  visible  medium. 
Horses  or  dogs  obey  himTor  they  evince~ah" un- 

"Sxplainable  prejudice  against  him.^  We  cannot 
assert  that  there  is  no  basis  for  this  feeling  sim- 
ply because  we  cannot  define  it.  To  describe  a 
personality  in  a  book  so  that  it  shall  carry  with 
it  some  of  the  atmosphere  which  we  feel,  without 
any  producible  evidence,  surrounds  a  real  person, 
implies  an  artistic  power  of  a  very  high  order, 
whether  we  consider  the  means  or  the  result. 

In  sketching  character,  artistic  power  must  be 
supplemented  by  sympathetic  insight,  or,  rather, 
sympathy  must  thoroughly  pervade  it.  This  is 
because  the  human  personality  is  by  far  the  most 
complicated  centre  of  force  of  which  we  have 
knowledge,  so  much  so  that  it  cannot  be  made 
the  subject  of  a  science.  Characters  intellectu- 
ally concqived  and  laboriously  analyzed  lack  the 
full,  rich,  wayward  life  that  is   so  attractive  in 

-         4'"' 


5©  ELEMENTS    OF    LITERARY    CRITICISM 

those  that  are  formed,  or  form  themselves,  in  the-^ 
writer's  imagination.  Human  nature  presents 
such  wonderful  diversity  that  of  the  countless 
millions  of  men  that  have  appeared  on  earth  no 
two  have  been  precisely  alike,  and  the  higher  the 
development  the  more  marked  become  the  indi- 
vidual differences.  No  system  of  education  has 
been  discovered  which  is  universally  applicable — 
in  fact,  no  rigid  system  which  is  not  as  likely  to 
do  harm  to  some  as  it  is  likely  to  do  good  to  oth- 
ers, for  identical  influences  sometimes  produce 
contrary  results.  We  learn  what  we  knoAv  of 
human  nature  from  experience,  but  if  we  at- 
tempt to  tabulate  our  experience  into  general 
rules  we  find  that  we  can  do  nothing  except  in 
the  way  of  loose  classification,  for  the  exceptions 
to  the  laws  are  quite  as  important  as  the  con- 
formities. This  follows  from  the  fact  that  every 
man  is  not  only  a  member  of  the  human  family, 
but  is  also  an  unique  specimen,  and  is  essentially 
and  everlastingly  himself.  The  appreciation  of 
individual  character  is  something  instinctive,  and 
the  power  of  embodying  an  individuality  in  writ- 
ten words  demands  a  peculiar  and  delicate  emo- 
tional susceptibility,  as  well  as  the  ability  to  con- 
vey to  others  the  impression  the  author  has 
formed  in  his  own  mind. 

By  external  marks  and  acquired  habit  men  are 
divided  into  general  classes  :  the  ecclesiastic,  the 
man  of  the  world,  the  man  of  affairs,  the  student, 


THE  POWER  OF  DRAWING  CHARACTER     5 1 

the  drunkard,  and  countless  others.  The  inferior 
character-artist  is  satisfied  if  he  can  portray  viv- 
idly the  distinguishing  features  of  the  type,  and 
represent  for  his  readers  the  phraseology  and 
mode  of  thought  distinctive  of  the  type,  giving 
to  every  Englishman,  for  example,  the  English 
national  peculiarities  and  to  the  ecclesiastic  and 
the  scientist  their  professional  diction  and  noth- 
ing more.  The  type-marks  are  undoubtedly  im- 
portant and  should  never  be  overlooked,  but  they 
should  be  shown  as  embedded  in  the  individual 
character.  To  the  true  character-artist  his  per- 
sonages' are  both  types  and  distinctly  living  indi- 
viduals. Thus  in  Meredith's  Egoist  Sir  Willough- 
by  Patterne  is  the  typical  selfish  man,  but  he  is  as 
much  himself  as  if  he  were  the  only  man  in  the 
world.  Even  in  short  sketches^the  typiral  qnali- 
^desand  the  personal  qualities  can  be  wehUd  to- 
gether, if  the  writer  really  conceives  a  man. 
Words  that_tli£_liying  character  speaks,  though 
apparently  irrelevant  and  unimportant,  affect  our 
imaginations  insensibly  in  precisely  the  way  re- 
quired to  build  up  in  our  minds  a  congruous  and 
satisfying  notion  of  a  human  being.  That  a  writer 
can  also  do  this  seems  the  more  wonderful  when 
we  consider  the  limitations  of  the  means  at  his 
disposal,  for  written  words  alone  are  an  inade- 
quate means  to  produce  so  complex  an  effect. 
In  our  every -day  intercourse  a  personality  re- 
veals itself  by  voice,  gesture,  bearing,  expression 


52  ELEMENTS    OP    LITERARY    CRITICISM 

of  body  and  feature,  by  a  thousand  combinations 
oTthese  as  well  as  by  what  it  says  and  does.  We 
gather  our  impression  of  it  from  repeated  obser- 
vation, perhaps  from  years  of  intercourse.  We 
reconcile  contradictory  evidence  and  continually 
modify  our  conception  of  the  character  by  other 
people's  opinion  of  it.  Our  impression  grows, 
changes,  possibly  is  always  wrong.  Sometimes  a 
look  or  a  tone  lets  us  into  the  secrets  of  character 
before  unsuspected.  When  a  man  or  a  woman  is_ 
placed  in  new  and  trying  circumstances,  some- 
times the  w  ill  breaks  down  ;  sometimes  it  sur- 
prises us  by  reacting  with  a  native  force  which 
has  lain  dormant  for  years.  In  some  regards 
each  man  remains  a  secret  to  the  world,  partly  so 
to  himself  ;  indeed,  he  may  not  know  himself  as 
well  as  his  friends  know  him,  so  deceitful  and 
deep  is  the  complicated  secret  of  human  charac- 
ter. Even  the  astute  Satan,  whose  experiences 
as  prosecuting  attorney  for  the  world  should  have 
made  him  a  profound  judge  of  human  nature,  was 
wrong  in  his  estimate  of  Jpb. 

Our  forefathers  were  so  impressed  by  the  un- 
fathomable and  contradictory  nature  of  humanity 
that  they  formed  a  theory  that  by  the  act  of  a 
remote  ancestor  the  entire  race  had  been  forced 
into  a  definite  relation  to  the  spiritual  world 
which  minimized  the  individual  will,  and  made 
actions  and  destiny  to  be  regulated,  not  by  char- 
acter, but  by  the  arbitrary  decree  of  an  inscru- 


THE  POWER  OF  DRAWING  CHARACTER     53 

table  external  power.  The  absolute  failure  of  all 
theories  to  account  for  or  to  explain  humanity 
from  that  of  original  sin  to  "the  evolution  of 
ethics"  results  ivum  the  complication  of  the  sub- 
ject-matter.  But  the  artist  in  character  attempts 
to  recreate  and  set  before  us,  through  the  medium 
of  words,  a  notion  of  its  elements  which  shall  be 
true  and  enlightening.  To  accomplish  this  won- 
derful task  the  writer  must  first  conceive  his  char- 
acter ;  he  must  know  his  imaginary  men  and 
women  as  well  as  he  knows  his  living  acquaint- 
ances ;  then  he  must  disclose  them  through  writ- 
ten words.  He  can  tell  us  what  they  said  and 
what  others  said  about  them.  He  can  describe 
their  situations,  and  their  personal  appearances 
and  their  actions.  To  make  all  these  harmonize, 
how  vivid  must  be  his  mental  conception  of  these 
imaginary  beings  !  How  comparatively  weak  the 
means  he  employs,  for  how  inferior  is  description 
to  sight !  how  inferior  written  words  to  spoken 
words  illustrated  by  intonations  of  the  voice  and 
expressions  of  the  eye  or  nervous  motions  of  the 
hand  in  giving  us  a  glimpse  of  the  real  man  !  In 
this  the  writer  is  at  a  great  disadvantage.  On 
the  other  hand,  the  writer  has  advantages.  For 
instance,  h£__caa— malce  us  hear  his  characters 
soliloquize  ;  he  can  lift  one  of  the  cloaks  behind 
which  _the  natural  man  conceals  hims^elf.  We 
may  be  present  at  secret  interviews,  may  be  al- 
lowed to  listen  when  he  makes  love  or  plots  a 


54  ELEMENTS    OF    LITERARY    CRITICISM 

murder  or  discloses  himself  to  himself.  The 
writer  can  exercise  the  artistic  power  of  selec- 
tion. He  can  discard  from  his  book  the  mean- 
ingless conversation  of  every  day  and  select  the 
pregnant  words — the  note  of  character.  He  can 
manage  his  character  and  force  him  to  disclose 
himself.  But  he  must  first  conceive  his  character 
and  have  something  to  disclose.  He  must  re- 
member him  as  a  portrait-painter  remembers  the 
face  of  his  sitter,  or  for  a  man  he  may  show  us  a 
machine  ;  for  a  character,  a  name. 

The  gI£.at_nejs_of  this  power  can  hardly  be^ 
over-estimated.  It  comes  nearest  to  creation.  It 
is  not  altogether  dependent  on  memory  or  obser- 
vation. The  character  created  is  not  a  thing  of 
shreds  and  patches.  It  is  a  new  conception. 
Hamlet  is  real.  People  talk  about  him  just  as 
they  do  about  the  men  they  have  met.  Colo- 
nel Newcome,  Dorothea  Brooke,  Maggie  Tulliver 
have  an  actuality — not  the_ja£±Lial_itv  of  flesh  and 
blopd^-but  the  reality  of  spiritual  entities.__^They 
are  pernKincnL  sduicls  of  force  ;  they  mould  peo- 
ple quite  as  much  as  if  they  had  lived  or  were 
living  now.  They  are  stronger  than  their  cre- 
ators. They  influence  lives  and  characters  far 
more  than  Shakespeare  or  George  Eliot  or  Thack- 
eray themselves  did,  or  their  real  flesh-and-blood 
children  ever  did.  A  great  writer  raises  around 
him  a  troop  of  spirits  that  are  immortal,  in  whose 
company  he  himself   is   rescued   from   oblivion. 


THE    POWER    OF    DRAWING    CHARACTER  55 

Shakespeare's  daughter,  Joanna  Hall,  is  buried 
in  the  church-yard  of  Stratford,  and  all  we  know 
of  her  is  what  is  written  on  the  stone  : 

"/(\Mtty  above  her  sex, 
/      But  that's  not  all, 
f      Wise  unto  salvation 
\  Was  good  Mistress  Hall. 

But  the  two  hundred  sons  and  daughters  of  his 
pen  talk  with  us — challenge  our  respect  or  blame 
— open  the  secret  of  the  world,  and 

"  Blow  ope  the  iron  gates 
Of  Death  and  Lethe,  where  confused  lie 
Great  heaps  of  ruinous  mortaHty. 
As  Plato's  year  and  new  course  of  the  world 
Them  unto  us,  or  us  to  them,  had  hurled." 

Is  there  any  achievement  of  the  human  mind 
that  can  compare  to  the  creation  of  a  character 
in  fiction  which  assumes  in  men's  regards  the 
place  of  a  living  personage  and  calls  out  blame 
or  love  or  pity  as  if  it  were  real  ? 

The  superiority  of  the  literary  art  over  the  art 
of  painting  is  nowhere  more  evident  than  in  the 
power  of  individualizing  character.  The  liter- 
ary artist  gives  us  a  succession  of  moods,  the 
painted  portrait  is  limited  to  a  single  instant. 
The  great  portrait  presents  the  outward  bearing 
and  appearance  of  a  man  in  a  certain  mood  and 
in   a  definite   situation.     It   sums   up  character 


56  ELEMENTS    OF    LITERARY    CRITICISM 

reacting  on  a  definite  environment.  Undoubt- 
edly it  reflects  the  image  of  the  soul  under  the 
narrow  limitations   of   time   more  vividly  than 

"wordsjcan.  It  may  even  suggest  the  man's  past. 
But  the  writer  gives  us  a  continuous  succession 
of  portraits  in  all  moods,  in  all  situations.     We 

^e  Hamlet  in  the  court,  then  alone,  then  with 
the  other  young  men  —  with  his  love  —  with 
his  mother.  Sometimes  he  is  talking  with  his 
inferiors,  then  with  those  of  higher  rank.  We 
are  not  told  how  he  looked — that  we  might  have 
learned  much  better  from  a  portrait ;  but  we  are 
told  what  he  did  and  what  he  said  at  various 
times.  We  learn  how  he  felt.  We  hear  what 
other  people  think  of  him.  Our  impression  of 
his  character  is  therefore  many-sided  and  com- 
pounded of  a  thousand  different  impressions,  just 
as  our  impression  of  our  friends  is.  He  is  appar- 
ently a  very  different  person  when  in  the  pres- 
ence of  Horatio  from  what  he  seems  to  be  when 
alone  and  meditating  on  suicide.  A  picture  could 
not  show  him  at  once  irritated,  despondent,  and 
companionable.  A  series  of  portraits  could  not 
be  combined  into  a  whole  so  as  to  present  the 
picture  of  a  soul.  The  painter  can  make  his  pict- 
ure powerful  only  by  concentrating  his  attention 
on  that  aspect  of  the  character  which  appeals  to 
him  —  that  which  he  understands.  He  cannot 
change  his  point  ni  view,  for  he  looks  at  his  sub- 
ject pictorially,  and  his  touch  is  sure  only  when 


THE  POWER  OF  DRAWING  CHARACTER     57 

Jiis_sympa.tJiy_g.uides  it,  when  he  tries  to  embody 
spiritual  qualities  which  are  akin  to  him.  The 
literary4Jortrait  shows  all  sidles,  the  painter  one 
side  only.  The  painter  shows  his  sitter  facing 
the  world,  Avith  noble  thoughts,  or  at  least  under 
some  dominant  emotion.  How  can  he  show  him 
in  perplexity  or  retreat,  or  when  his  lower  nature 
asserts  itself?  He  gives  us  one  glimpse  behind 
the  curtains  that  hide  the  soul;  thejiter^cy  artist 

'gives  us  many.  In  fulness  and  complexity  the  lit- 
erary art  is  far  superior  to  the  pictorial  art,  for 
its  depicting  power  is  continuous,  the  others 
momentary.  A  flash  of  lightning  will  not  enable 
us  to  take  our  bearings  unless  we  are  already 
familiar  with  the  landscape. 

What  is  called  a  knowledge  of  human  nature 
is  quite  different  from  artistic  appreciation  of 
character.  It  comes  from  practical  experience 
of  the  struggle  f  -r  existence  on  the  lower  plane.. 
It  renders  one  unlikely  to  be  imposed  upon  by 
the  ordinary  tricks  and  devices  of  the  social  and 
commercial  world.  The  attitude  of  mental  self- 
defence  and  suspicion  that  it  induces  is  pro- 
Tective,  but  its  circle  of  mental  observation  is 
restricted.  Appreciation  of  character,  on  the 
contrary,  is  an  artistic  power  and  deals  with  a 
wide  range  of  mat'erTal.^  The  tramp  and  the  crim- 
tnal"rnay~be  quite  as  interestrn^-as- the  respect- 
able citizen — in  fact,  they  are  usually  far  more 
so.     The  landscape  artist  is  insensible  to  the  fer- 


58  ELEMENTS   OF   LITERARY   CRITICISM 

tility  or  arable  qualities  of  the  surface  of  the 
earth.  He  looks  for  lines  of  force  that  tell  of 
past  history,  harmonies  or  contrasts,  lights  and 
shadows,  colors  with  indefinable  suggestion,  all 
significant  combinations  and  all  elements  that 
refer  to  the  great  whole  and  yet  are  individual. 
In  the  same  way  the  literary  artist  is  interested 
in  the  characteristic  elements  of  human  nature, 
and  disregards  the  adventitious  and  common, 
place  distinctions  between  prince  and  pauper. 
An  acute  judgment  of  the  ordinary  types  of  men 
is  a  valuable  safeguard  in  life,  but  insight  into 
the  obscure  and  complicated  or  abnormal  comes 
from  far  higher  qualities.  The  first  demands 
an  attitude  of  distrust,  the  last  an  attitude  of 
sympathy.  But  it  is  singular  that  men  of  affairs 
and  practical  judgment  who  possess  what  is  call- 
ed "a  shrewd  knowledge  of  human  nature"  are 
easily  imposed  upon  by  impostors  who  are  not 
of  the  type  to  which  they  are  accustomed,  while 
the  recluse  frequently  is  able  to  detect  the  swin- 
dler or  the  charlatan  under  the  most  ingenious 
disguises,  although  he  is  not  continaally  on  his 
guard  against  his  fellow-men. 

This  appreciation  of  character,  for  which  a  cer- 
tain simplicity  and  openness  seems  to  be  requi- 
site as  well  as  a  capacity  for  understanding  eleva- 
tion of  soul,  is  a  power  necessary  to  the  actor 
who  is  anything  more  than  a  mimic.  In  depicting 
character,  the  actor  has  the  advantage  over  the  au- 


THE  POWER  OF  DRAWING  CHARACTER     59 

thor  in  that  he  can  use,  besides  the  author's  words, 
the  powerful  instruments  of  expression,  intona- 
tion, gesture,  attitude,  everything  which  gives  a 
personality  physical  life,  elements  that  the  writer 
is  forced  to  leave  to  the  imagination  of  the  read- 
er. But  the  great  actor  has  studied  his  character 
and  evolved  his  own  conception  of  it,  often  far 
superior  to  that  of  the  author.  Booth's  Richelieu 
was  a  great  personality  ;  Bulwer's,  a  mere  sug- 
gestion, a  skeleton  of  lath  on  which  the  fustian 
hung  loosely.  This  is  the  reason  why  great  act- 
ors are  so  rare.  In  addiLioii  lo  an  unusual  com- 
bination of  physical  qualities,  the  great  actor 
must  possess  the  real  insight  into  character,  and 
a  capacity  for  work  and  for  undergoing  excite- 
ment without  being  exhausted.  He  must  both 
conceive  and  render  the  character.  Again,  his 
conception  must  be  vivid,  but  not  too  delicate, 
for  in  the  hour  or  two  which  is  allowed  him  he 
cannot  bring  out  the  psychological  details  which 
the  novelist  can  take  his  time  to  portray  in  his 
extended  narrative.  Unfortunately,  too,  his  work 
is  not  enduring.  It  passes  away  with  the  drop- 
ping of  the  curtain,  and  becomes  a  mere  tradi- 
tion. But  while  it  lasts  the  actor's  presentation 
has  a  warmth  and  living  energy  that  entitles-  it 
to  be  called  the  creation  of  a  personality  in  the 
highest  sense.  Such  is  the  imperfection  of  the 
world  that  the  greatest  of  all  artistic  impersona- 
tions of  life  is  the  rarest  and  the  most  fleeting. 


6o  ELEMENTS    OF    LITERARY    CRITICISM 

The  embodiments  of  the  sculptor  are  even  more 
restricted  than  those  of  the  painter,  and  can  only 
interpret  that  which  myth  or  tradition  or  litera- 
ture has  created,  but  they  are  at  least  permanent, 
and  in  this  there  may  be  some  compensation  for 
lack  of  scope  and  delicacy  in  delineating  the 
complexities  of  human  nature. 

It  will  be  found  on  reflection  that  our  impres- 
sions of  historical  character  are  largely  dependent 
on  the  literary  art.  The  history  which  preserves 
any  living  image  of  the  notables  of  the  past 
does  so  because  the  historian  possesses  some  of 
the  literary  power  of  conceiving  and  embodying 
a  character.  Dr.  Johnson,  as  he  stands  for  us,  is 
Boswell's  Johnson.  The  Shelley  of  TreJawney's 
sketch  and  H();_;'g's  Memoirs  cannot  be  displaced 
by  the  vague  ligurc  of  modern  biographers. 
Motley's  William  the  Silent  is  strong  and  real. 
The  Roman  emperors  live  in  the  pages  of  Tacitus. 
We  never  forget  Carlyle's  Frederick  nor  his  Crom- 
well, though  the  researches  of  some  modern  re- 
alist may  bring  out  facts,  or  fragments  of  fact, 
not  entirely  compatible  with  the  conception  the 
great  artist  embodied.  A  negative  result  cannot 
destroy  the  power  of  an  artistic  creation.  Jupiter 
is  still  great  and  Venus  fair,  because  they  were 
once  conceived  as  personalities,  and,  havinp^  once 
attained  ideal  e.vistence,  they  remain  mirQLQLtal. 

Again,  the  preservation "m  a  race  or  nation  by 
tradition  of  historical  characters  bears  the  same 


THE  POWER  OF  DRAWING  CHARACTER     Ol 

relation  to  literary. embodiment  that  folk-lore  or 
folk-ballads  bear  to  literature.  There  is  the  same 
vagueness  and  the  same  ideality.  The  tradition- 
ary character  is  doubtless  incomplete  and  in  some 
regards  incorrect,  since  traditions  are  edited  by 
each  generation,  and  the  foot-notes  are  worked 
into  the  text  without  any  regard  to  accuracy,  but 
simply  because  they  are  interesting  to  the  hear- 
ers. Therefore  those  features  of  the  race-hero 
are  preserved  which  arc  in  harmony  with  the 
race-temper.  They  are  fixed  in  rhyme  or  chron- 
icle after  they  have  been  moulded  in  the  spirit 
of  the  primitive  epic.  This  process  would  go 
on  now  in  the  cases  of  Washington  and  Lincoln 
were  it  not  for  the  invention  of  printing  and  the 
growth  of  the  exact,  scientific  spirit.  As  it  is,  there 
is  a  sort  of  Lincoln  myth  growing  up  even  in  this 
exact,  realistic  age.  One  can  find  traces  of  it  in 
talking  with  farmers  or  in  reading  the  daily  pa- 
pers and  in  the  compositions  of  young  men  ;  and 
there  is  certainly  a  Washington  myth  which  re- 
sists the  realist.  The  character  evolved  by  this 
process  has  traces  of  grandeur  and  benignity  and 
is  a  national  product.  The  man  was  great  and 
representative  by  virtue  of  certain  rare  qualities. 
These  qualities  the  people  seize  on  in  their  im- 
agination, obscuring  the  common,  every-day  traits 
which  do  not  so  much  appeal  to  their  sympathies. 
He  lives  in  their  consciousness  as  an  ideal  figure, 
as  the  Jews  have  made  of  their  Abraham  a  patri- 


62  ELKMRXTS    OF    LITERARY    CRITICISM 

arch  favored  by  God.  As  we  see  in  folk-lore  or  in 
folk-music  a  na'u^e  striving  after  nature  interpre- 
tation, or  the  germs  of  primitive  ethics,  so  in  the 
popular  embodiment  of  the  national  hero  we  see 
the  yearning  for  the  ideal.  These  race-embodi- 
ments differ  from  the  creations  of  literature  in 
their  breadth  and  vagueness.  They  have  the 
power  of  stirring  the  imagination  of  men  of  the 
same  race,  and  when  an  artist  takes  them  up,  and 
fills  out  the  vague  outlines  with  his  personal 
touch,  the  great  heroes  of  tradition  become  the 
greatest  figures  in  literature.  Homer  alone  did 
not  create  Achilles,  and  Henry  V.  is  as  much 
English  as  Shakespearian.  The  race-hero  has  a 
quality  that  appeals  not  to  some  one  set  of  men, 
but  to  all  who  speak  the  language,  all  who  recog- 
nize the  same  ethnic  bond.  The  figures  of  the 
early  kings  and  demi-gods  stand  in  history  as 
types  of  nations,  preserved  by  the  literary  art,- 
Thus  the  memory  of  Hebrew  David,  of  the  Greek 
Alexander,  of  the  Roman  Caesar  was  exalted  by 
the  imagination  of  posterity.  The  name  be- 
comes a  war-cry  and  an  inspiration,  something 
by  which  to  conjure  up  the  spirit  of  dead  patriot- 
ism. The  character  thus  embodied  in  the  con- 
sciousness of  the  people  is  often  the  inspiration  to 
deeds  of  self-sacrifice,  it  is  made  the  basis  of  law 
and  religion.  The  fact  that  it  is  sketched  in  bold 
outlines  and  of  superhuman  dimensions  makes  it 
impressive  and  easily  comprehended.     The  liter- 


THE  POWER  OF  DRAWING  CHARACTER     63 

ary  portraits,  as  Tennyson's  Arthurian  knights 
or  Swinburne's  Greek  heroes,  are  apt  to  be  much 
inferior  to  the  originals.  No  modern  has  been 
able  to  present  a  great  picture  of  David  or  Samuel. 
But  if  the  modern  writer  and  the  hero  are  of  the 
same  blood,  sometimes  the  original  is  amplified 
in  the  national  spirit.  Shakespeare  fails  with 
Julius  Caesar,  and  makes  him  but  a  theatrical 
figure  ;  but  as  an  Englishman,  the  traditionary 
Henry  V.  appealed  to  his  imagination,  so  in  his 
drama  the  king  becomes  a  great  English  type. 

Man  has,  of  course,  always  been  interesting  to 
men,  but  ancient  writers  Avere  less  struck  with 
the  individual  than  are  moderns.  In  one  sense 
Christianity  has  enriched  human  nature,  in  an- 
other it  has  made  it  introverted  and  artificial. 
Without  going  into  the  question,  we  will  assume 
that  Chaucer  is  the  first  to  depict  a  character  in 
the  modern  sense.  His  people  are  so  lifelike  that 
it  is  difficult  to  believe  that  some  of  them  are  not 
transcripts  from  actual  living  persons  whom  he 
had  known.  In  the  writings  of  most  of  his  con- 
temporaries the  characters  are  done  in  a  romantic 
manner  and  rarely  use  the  language  of  every-day 
life,  nor  are  they  shown  to  us  in  every-day  rela- 
tions. We  have  characters  who  represent  courage 
or  saintliness  or  cruelty  or  bravado.  But  Chau- 
cer's people  are  themselves,  and  act  from  a  defi- 
nite, full-rounded  conception  of  character  in  the 
writer's  mind.     The   description  of  the  Wife  of 


64  ELEMENTS    OF    LITERARY    CRITICISM 

Bath  tallies  exactly  with  her  talk  in  the  linkword, 
and  her  story  is  like  her.  We  get  the  impression 
not  only  of  a  certain  type  of  bold,  coarse-fibred 
female,  but  of  a  certain  definite  woman  of  the 
class.  She  is  not  a  bad  woman,  but  an  energet- 
ic, capable,  unrefined  one,  but,  above  all,  she  is 
"Chaucer's  Wife  of  Bath."  Chaucer  gives  us 
only  a  sketch  of  her,  but  as  far  as  it  goes  it  is 
consistent  and  truthful. 

We  pass  from  Chaucer  to  the  Shakespearian  age. 
The  characters  in  Mallory's  recasting  of  the  Ar- 
thurian legends  are  to  some  extent  individualized, 
but  they  are  romantic.  They  do  not  speak  the 
natural  language  of  men,  nor  are  they  concerned 
about  the  ordinary  activities  of  life.  The  poem 
is  far  from  being  a  transcript  of  life  or  even  an 
interpretation  of  life,  since  the  artificial  motives 
of  chivalry  and  mystical  religion  are  predominant 
in  the  personages  represented.  They  are  not 
from  life,  but  from  a  three-century  dream  of  life, 
though  the  tragedy  of  Launcelot's  and  Guine- 
vere's love  is  conceived  truthfully  and  profound- 
ly. But  in  the  latter  part  of  the  sixteenth  cen- 
tury human  nature  seems  to  have  acquired  new 
interest,  and  in  the  welding  of  the  farcical,  the 
historical,  the  pastoral,  the  mystical,  and  the  am- 
atory elements  in  the  old  stage  representations 
into  the  new  drama,_  men  found  a  literary  means 
of  representing  all  sides  of  humanity  through 
that  most  powerful  instrument  of  disclosing  char- 


THE  POWER  OF  DRAWING  CHARACTER     65 

acter,  the  dialogue,  as  well  as  the  declamatory 
speech.  It  is  very  natural  for  a  man  with  some 
imagination,  when  writing  words  supposed  to  be 
spoken  by  another,  to  form  some  conception  of 
the  imaginary  speaker  and  insensibly  to  fit  the 
words  to  his  conception. 

As  time  went  on  a  set  of  conventional  char- 
acters were  formed  —  the  villain,  the  lover,  the 
sttge  king,  the  clown,  and  the  like.  The  writers 
became  more  intent  on  the  stage  situations,  the 
witty  repartee,  and  the  forms  and  phrases  which 
had  been  found  to  be  effective  on  the  stage.  The 
audience  became  more  prominent  in  the  author's 
mind  than  the  speaker.  In  consequence  individ- 
uality was  lessened  and  types  and  "character 
parts,"  in  which  some  peculiarity  is  exaggerated, 
appear.  In  the  early  history  of  our  drama  the 
human  personality  appealed  to  the  imaginations 
of  writers  of  genius.  Exaggerated  presentations 
of  the  human  will  and  ambition,  as  well  as  of  the 
powers  of  endurance  and  forgiveness,  were  put 
on  the  stage.  This  is  especially  true  of  Marlowe's 
Jew  of  Malta,  Webster's  Duchess  of  Malfi,  and 
Shakespeare's  Richard  III.,  in  all  of  which  we 
find  characters  of  superhuman  and  diabolic  en- 
ergy, but  thoroughly  alive.  These  characters, 
though  vigorous,  are  not  finely  shaded,  and 
Shakespeare's  ability  is  shown  by  the  fact  that 
as  he  went  on  to  mastery  of  his  art  he  was  able 
to  fill  in  these  powerful  conceptions  of  human 
5 


66  ELEMENTS    OF    LITERARY    CRITICISM 

individuality  with  an  infinite  number  of  details, 
all  springing  out  of  the  central  dominant  char- 
acteristic and  harmonious  with  it.     This  is  the 
more    remarkable,  as   audiences    in    general   are 
more    pleased    with    powerful    exaggeration    or 
mimetic   transcripts    of    something   with   which 
they  are   familiar  than   with  delicate,  poetic  in- 
terpretation of  life  or  character.     Probably  the 
great  body  of  the  Shakespearian  audience  were 
pleased   with   the    poetic   imagery   and  eloquent 
language  of  the  plays  and  the  succession  of  pict- 
ures   presented    to    their    imaginations,   but    no 
doubt  there  were  some  who  perceived  with  de- 
light the  delicate  shades  and  bold  contrasts  of 
character  in  Hamlet,  or  Ttvclfth  Night,  although 
such  elements  had  not  been  made  the  subject  of 
conscious  criticism.     But  when  Ave  read  the  play 
of  Hamlet  we  find  that  the  interest  depends  al- 
most entirely  on  the  character  of  the  prince,  and 
that  the  interest  of  the  poetic  passages  depends 
largely  on  the  fact  that  they  are  spoken  by  him 
or  refer  to  him.     A  review  of  a  few  of  Hamlet's 
speeches   will   show    how   very   contradictory  of 
each  other  they   are,  and  yet  how  they  are  all 
harmonious  with  a  complicated  and  refined  yet 
human  character. 

In  the  first  place,  the  tragedy  is  called  The 
Tragedy  of  Hamlet,  Prince  of  Denmark.  This,  of 
course,  calls  our  attention  to  him  as  a  person  of 
social  importance  and  dignity.     In  the  first  act 


THE  POWER  Op-"  DRAWING  CHARACTER     67 

we  are  informed  in  a  mysterious  and  suggestive 
manner  that  something  is  wrong  of  sufficient  im- 
portance to  cause  the  ghost  of  the  late  king  to 
appear  on  earth.  The  soldiers  agree  that  the 
matter  must  be  referred  to  Hamlet.  In  the 
next,  we  have  the  Danish  court  on  parade.  Ham- 
let appears  third  in  the  procession,  immediately 
behind  the  king  and  queen.  After  the  despatch 
of  the  ordinary  court  business,  Hamlet's  uncle, 
the  king,  asks  him  why  he  is  in  low  spirits.  Ham- 
let answers  him  rather  curtly,  evincing  either 
petulance  or  justifiable  aversion.  To  his  mother 
he  replies  with  respect  and  consideration.  The 
court  retires,  leaving  Hamlet  alone.  He  expresses 
his  discontent  with  the  world  in  words  which 
show  that  his  feeling  is  deep-seated,  and  he  ex- 
presses forcibly  the  very  natural  aversion  which 
a  young  man  feels  for  a  man  who  has  married 
his  mother  soon  after  his  father's  death.  We 
see  that  he  is  entirely  alone  in  the  world.  In 
the  next  scene,  with  the  three  young  men  of  his 
own  age,  he  discloses  another  side  of  his  char- 
acter. Not  only  is  he  very  high  bred  and  cour- 
teous in  his  manner,  but  he  is  very  sympathetic. 
When  Horatio  describes  the  apparition  of  his 
father's  ghost,  he  becomes  much  interested,  and 
interested  in  a  perfectly  natural  manner.  His 
questions  are  directly  to  the  point.  When  Ho- 
ratio says  of  the  appearance  of  his  father's 
spirit, 


68  ELEMENTS    OF    LITERARY    CRITICISM 

"  It  would  have  much  amazed  you," 
he  makes  a  very  singular  reply : 

"Very  like,  very  like.     Stayed  it  long?" 

and  goes  on  with  his  questions  without  expatiat- 
ing on  the  wonder  he  would  have  felt.  He  is 
evidently  one  of  those  persons  who  dislike  to  have 
their  train  of  thought  interrupted,  or  to  receive 
suggestions  from  another.  We  are  not  surprised 
to  find  that  he  always  takes  the  leadership  in 
conversation,  not  so  much  on  account  of  his  sta- 
tion, but  because  his  mind  is  not  only  very  ac- 
tive but  is  preoccupied  with  its  own  activity  and 
removed  from  the  impression  of  immediate  sur- 
roundings. In  the  next  scene  in  which  he  ap- 
pears, our  impression  of  his  mental  isolation  is 
heightened  by  the  fact  that  he  and  his  friends 
are  outside  the  castle  in  the  night,  and  the  noise 
of  the  drunken  revel  of  the  king  can  be  heard 
within,  which  suggests  the  noisy,  brutal,  sensual, 
and  successful  world  in  contrast  to  the  loneliness 
of  the  young  man  of  refinement.  It  suggests  to 
Hamlet  philosophical  reflections  and  remote  anal- 
ogies, which  are  interrupted  by  the  appearance 
of  the  ghost.  Hamlet's  astonishment  is  expressed 
naturally  and  in  the  most  beautiful  words.  He 
at  once  rises  to  the  occasion,  and  we  discover 
that  he  is  devoid  of  physical  fear.  When  he 
learns  from  the  ghost  that  his  surmises  are  cor- 


THE  POWER  OF  DRAWING  CHARACTER     69 

rect  he  dedicates  himself  to  revenge,  and  in  the 
most  absurd  and  inconsequential  manner  makes 
a  memorandum  to  that  effect.  He  never  comes 
any  nearer  to  an  action  than  that.  When  the 
young  men  join  him  he  indulges  in  untimely 
jesting,  and  the  sensible  Horatio  is  compelled  to 
say  : 

"These  are  but  wild  and  whirling  words,  my  lord." 
Hamlet's  natural  courtesy  makes  him  reply  : 

"  I'm  sorry  they  offend  you,  heartily ; 
Yes,  faith,  heartily." 

But  he  immediately  resumes  the  tone  of  excited 
banter,  and  ends  by  swearing  them  all  to  silence 
for  no  good  reason,  and  regrets  that  a  duty  is 
laid  on  him  which  a  moment  before  he  had  sol- 
emnly engaged  to  perform.  He  foresees  that 
he  can  relieve  the  tension  under  which  he  is 
only  by  irrelevant  and  incoherent  talking,  and 
makes  his  friends  promise  not  to  notice  him  if 
he  does  so. 

To  his  character,  disclosed  in  the  first  act,  Ham- 
let is  true  throughout  the  play.  He  has  lived  a 
happy,  full  life  under  the  love  and  protection  of 
his  royal  father,  and  never  came  into  direct  con- 
tact with  the  world  as  it  is.  He  is  now  thorough- 
ly disillusionized.  It  is  evident  that  he  has  fall- 
en in  love  with  the  girl,  Ophelia,  and  has  ideal- 
ized her   in  rather  a  dilettante  fashion.      He  is 


70  ELEMENTS    OF    LITERARY    CRITICISM 

disgusted  with  his  mother  and  disappointed  with 
his  love.  His  mind  is  very  active,  and  his  power 
of  putting  thought  into  language  abnormally  de- 
veloped. During  the  rest  of  the  play  he  talks 
and  lets  things  drift.  Once,  in  a  blind,  spasmodic 
act,  he  kills  Polonius.  In  the  end,  as  he  is  dying, 
he  kills  his  uncle  in  much  the  same  way.  He  has 
a  good  opportunity  to  kill  him  when  he  is  praying, 
but  invents  the  excuse  for  procrastination,  that 
if  he  killed  him  then  he  would  go  straight  to 
heaven.  Had  he  found  him  in  a  drunken  sleep 
he  would  have  found  a  better  excuse  for  not  kill- 
ing him  at  that  time.  There  is  just  one  thing  he 
cannot  do,  and  that  is,  become  an  assassin.  It  is 
not  that  he  has  any  of  the  modern  sentimental 
dislike  to  bloodshed  ;  when  he  has  killed  Polonius 
he  is  sorry,  but  not  shocked,  but  he  cannot  take  the 
life  of  one  of  his  fellow-men  in  cold  blood.  He  is 
always  persuading  himself  that  he  ought  to  do  so 
and  upbraiding  himself  for  irresolution  and  re- 
solving to  do  it,  but  he  simply  cannot  do  it,  ex- 
cept in  a  moment  of  unreflecting  excitement.  He 
is  a  highly  cultured  man,  in  whom  the  original  in- 
stinct of  race  fraternity  is  abnormally  developed, 
though  he  is  unconscious  of  it.  So  we  occasion- 
ally find  a  sheriff  make  all  the  preparations  for 
an  execution,  and  then  prove  utterly  unable  to 
perform  the  final  act;  and,  on  the  other  hand,  oth- 
ers seem  to  find  a  dreadful  pleasure  in  the  excite- 
ment of  taking  life.     It  is  not  just  to  say  that 


THE  POWKR  OF  DRAWING  CHARACTER     7 1 

Hamlet  has  a  diseased  will  because  he  philoso- 
phized about  everything.     He  was  a  very  able 
man  with  the  poetico-oratorical  temperament  and 
without  a  cowardly  drop  of  blood  in  his  body  ; 
but  it  proved  that  he  could  not  commit  murder 
deliberately,  though  he  had  every  warrant  for  do- 
ing so.     He  can  act  promptly  enough  and  even 
with  cruelty  in  certain  directions,  but,  as  is  oc- 
casionally the  case  with  people  we  know,  there  is 
a  line  of  action  which  he  shrinks  from  carrying 
out.     Both  intellectually  and  emotionally   he  is 
so  highly  organized  that  he  excites  our  admira- 
tion.    But  it  is  evident  that  the  balance  is  very 
delicately  adjusted,  and  that  it  is  impossible  to 
predict  what  he  may  say  or  do  next,  and  that  at 
any  moment  he  may  become  insane.     The  shad- 
ow of  that  dreadful  calamity  rests  on  him,  and 
our  sympathy  is  powerfully  aroused  for  one  of 
our  race  in  mortal  danger  and  partly  unconscious 
of  it.     Again,   it   never   occurs   to   him   that   he 
might  originate  a  conspiracy,  or  raise  a  rebellion 
which,  judging  from    the    readiness  with   which 
the  Danes  join  in  the  emeute  with  Laertes  and 
from  Hamlet's  popularity,  would  probably  have 
been  an  easy  task.     But  we  do  not  wonder  that 
he  never  undertakes  to  do  anything  of  the  kind, 
for  he  is  not  that  kind  of  a  man  we  feel  quite  sure. 
Now,  although  Hamlet   is  at  once  vacillating 
and  resolute,  philosophical  and  gifted  with  shrewd 
common-sense,  moody  and  cheerfully  companion- 


72  ELEMENTS    OF    LITERARY    CRITICISM 

able,  sublime  and  ridiculous,  we  feel,  after  we  have 
read  the  play  twice,  that  he  is  he.  When  any 
one  says  no  man  ever  acted  as  he  did,  we  feel 
that  it  is  a  complete  answer  to  say,  "  Hamlet  act- 
ed so."  This  is  the  effect  of  the  literary  art  of 
embodying  character. 

This  power  was  at  first  confined  mainly  to  the 
dramatists.  The  characters  in  the  romances  of 
the  period  are  presented  in  an  unreal  and  affect- 
ed manner,  though  sometimes  a  poetic  sketch  is 
found  not  without  beauty  and  suggestiveness. 
Spenser's  men  and  women  have  little  human  in- 
dividuality. The  author  is  more  intent  on  their 
allegorical  significance  than  on  their  personality. 
Milton's  creations  are  or^  too  large  a  scale  to  be 
entirely  distinct  character  conceptions.  Satan 
is  a  grand  figure,  but  rather  a  representation  of 
an  elemental  force  than  a  personal  devil  like 
Mephistopheles.  But  the  people  in  Pilgrivi's  Prog- 
ress have  a  delightful  reality.  Old  Mr.  Honest, 
Mr.  Worldly  Wiseman,  Mr.  Despondency,  and  his 
daughter.  Much  Afraid,  were  no  doubt  drawn 
directly  from  people  Bunyan  knew  in  English 
towns,  and  their  conversation  has  the  quality 
of  natural  human  talk,  so  that  it  is  more  life- 
like than  it  would  be  if  it  were  exactly  reported 
in  dialect.  In  the  next  generation  Addison 
created  a  charming  lifelike  figure,  not  very 
solidly  painted,  in  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley — a  con- 
glomerate   of   palpable,   external    peculiarities— 


THE  POWER  OF  DRAWING  CHARACTER     73 

a  sketch  of  clothes  and  manners  rather  than  a 
study  of  human  nature.  Sterne  casts  a  much 
more  penetrating  glance  into  the  intricacies  of 
human  nature,  but  his  attention  is  caught  by 
the  oddities,  whimsicalities,  and  absurdities  to  be 
found  in  English  country  life,  which  was  then 
so  remote  from  conventional  influences  that  an 
individuality  might  grow  into  the  most  amus- 
ing eccentricity.  Nevertheless,  Uncle  Toby  and 
his  brother  struck  a  root  deep  in  human  love. 
No  such  living  portraits  had  been  sketched  since 
Shakespeare  wrote  the  last  line  of  The  Tempest 
and  laid  down  the  pen  which  no  one  since  has 
been  worthy  to  take  up.  Goldsmith's  Dr.  Prim- 
rose and  his  wife  are  drawn  with  a  hand  scarcely 
less  firm  and  with  a  realism  scarcely  less  clearly 
conceived.  Both  Sterne's  and  Goldsmith's  crea- 
tions show  the  unmistakable  artist  touch,  and 
their  slight  sketches  are  conceived  in  a  spirit  of 
love  for  their  fellow-men  —  a  humorous  percep- 
tion of  external  and  acquired  peculiarities  rather 
than  insight  into  the  springs  of  action.  Scott's 
broad  canvas  is  covered  with  figures  seen  through 
the  romantic  mist  which  then  hung  over  the  past, 
blotting  out  whatever  lies  in  the  shadow  and 
magnifying  the  prominent  features.  His  peas- 
ants, drawn  from  observation,  are  clearly  por- 
trayed, but  his  more  important  characters  are 
not  entirely  natural.  Sometimes  they  seem  a 
little  vague,  and  occasionally  slightly  theatrical, 


74  ELEMENTS    OP    LITERARY    CRITICISM 

though  they  rarely  fail  to  be  interesting,  which, 
indeed,  is  the  great  test  of  truth.  Without  al- 
luding to  other  writers,  we  may  take  it  for  grant- 
ed that  as  civilization  assumes  the  modern  phase, 
human  nature  is  becoming  more  complicated  and 
more  interesting  to  the  human  race.  The  nature 
of  women  and  of  children  is  carefully  studied 
and  better  understood.  More  authors  seem  ca- 
pable of  drawing  character.  Dickens,  Thackeray, 
George  Eliot,  and  Hawthorne  are  great  charac- 
ter-artists, and  are  contemporaneous. 

At  present  two  influences  militate  somewhat 
against  the  free  exercise  of  this  power.  The  first 
is  the  increasing  tendency  to  rely  on  conscious 
analysis,  based  on  observation  and  to  distrust 
imaginative  insight.  This  is  a  phase  of  the  exact 
scientific  mental  habit  of  the  age.  The  result  is 
that  we  have  plenty  of  good,  honest  work,  but 
little  that  is  creative.  If  the  writer  have  the 
power  of  insight,  he  must  surrender  himself  to  it, 
and  allow  it  to  work  without  fear  of  being  thought 
fantastic.  Distrust  of  this  faculty  is  fatal.  Ajjs, 
dacity  gives  it  scope,  and  it  is  a  mark  of  genius  to 
dare  and  to  justify  its  courage  by  success.  The 
second  is  the  hurry  of  the  day,  which  is  an  in- 
direct result  of  our  labor-saving  inventions.  A 
successful  writer  must  keep  before  the  public. 
But  a  great  character  of  fiction  is  the  result  of 
thought,  conscious  and  unconscious.  The  writer 
must  brood  over  his  subject  as  Shakespeare  brood- 


THE  POWER  OF  DRAWING  CHARACTER     75 

ed  over  Hamlet.  There  is  a  necessary  period  be- 
tween seed-time  and  harvest.  But  now,  when  a 
man  has  marketed  his  first  crop,  another  is  de- 
manded at  once.  So  we  have  innumerable  short 
tales  and  hasty  sketches,  photographic  reports  of 
talk,  dress,  and  scenery,  but  few  slowly  matured 
studies  of  humanity.  Even  so  conscientious  a 
writer  as  Stevenson  felt  this  pressure,  and  so 
great  an  artist  as  Meredith  wrote  too  much. 
Meredith  conceives  human  nature  on  a  broad 
scale.  He  regards  a  personality  as  a  centre  of 
opposing  forces.  He  understands  that  behind 
the  man  whom  we  see  lies  the  man  whom  we  do 
not  see,  the  soul  or  character  proper,  which  is 
sometimes  mean,  sometimes  noble,  but  always 
elusive,  mysterious,  and  profoundly  interesting. 
Still,  it  is  possible  that  if  he  had  produced  half 
as  many  books  they  would  be  four  times  as  val- 
uable. The  Egoist  is  a  great  book,  a  profound 
psychological  study ;  so  is  Richard  Feverel.  But 
had  these  great  books  remained  in  his  mind  two 
years  longer,  the  form  would  have  been  more 
worthy  the  matter.  It  may  be  that  Meredith 
could  not  be  other  than  he  is  nor  write  different- 
ly than  he  has,  but  his  books  give  the  impression 
of  not  having  been  thoroughly  matured  in  the 
author's  mind. 

The  general  conclusions  of  this  brief  and  im- 
perfect sketch  of  the  development  of  the  great 
artistic  power  are  :  that  never  before  has  such 


76  ELEMENTS    OF    LITERARY    CRITICISM 

interest  been  felt  in  man  as  now,  and  that  at 
present  literary  artists  are  largely  confined  to 
drawing  from  models,  to  producing  accurate  like- 
nesses from  observation  of  men  as  they  appear, 
not  of  men  as  they  are,  and  in  consequence 
are  rapidly  becoming  mechanical  and  tiresome, 
though  frequently  attaining  the  second  level  of 
excellence.  The  modern  standard  English  novel 
will  very  likely  be  regarded  in  the  next  century 
with  the  distaste  with  which  we  regard  Ainadis 
of  Gaul,  or  Le  Grand  Cyrus.  Men  will  wonder 
how  their  ancestors  could  have  read  such  unin- 
teresting books,  for  the  novel  is  the  great  mod- 
ern form,  and  is  sure  to  reach  a  higher  develop- 
ment. 

Although  the  vehicle  of  the  writer  is  always 
words,  the  method  in  which  effects  are  produced 
by  different  masters  are  quite  as  unlike  as  those 
of  a  sketch  in  black  and  white  and  a  study  in 
color.  Every  writer  has  his  style  in  drawing 
character.  Some  use  description  or  personal 
comment,  giving  us  asides  or  confidential  expla- 
nations. Others  let  the  character  develop  itself 
through  conversation.  Some  keep  their  char- 
acters always  in  safe  situations  and  rarely  allow 
them  to  become  excited.  Others  carry  them 
through  storm  and  stress.  Some  writers  are  in- 
tensely interested  in  psychological  analysis,  others 
in  some  physical  phenomena — beauty,  strength, 
or  tricks   of  manner,     All  methods   shade  into 


THE  POWER  OF  DRAWING  CHARACTER     77 

each  other,  and  the  same  writer  may  use  several 
in  different  parts  of  the  same  book.  Any  anal- 
ysis must  therefore  be  imperfect,  and  it  is  diffi- 
cult to  find  perfect  examples  of  any  one  class. 
In  one  sense  there  are  as  many  methods  as  there 
are  authors. 

The  two  methods  which  are  usually  antithe- 
sized  to  each  other  are  spoken  of  as  theiomantic 
an^ljhe  realistic.  Each  of  these  might  be  sub- 
divided, or  other  tones  might  be  enumerated,  as 
the  heroic,  the  classic,  the  statuesque,  the  famil- 
iar, and  others,  some  of  the  terms  referring  to 
method,  some  to  the  nature  of  the  subject-matter. 
In  poetry,  especially  in  epic  poetry,  characters 
are  delineated  of  superhuman  dignity  and  power, 
not  transcripts  of  humanit)%  but  compounded  of 
some  of  the  great  possibilities  of  humanity  with 
the  weaker  parts  omitted.  The  Prometheus  of 
^schy.lus  and  the  Brynhild  of  the  Scandinavian 
Epic,  and  Milton's  Satan  are  of  this  nature. 
They  have  no  direct  and  complete  relation  to 
human  life.  The  day  for  such  character  concep- 
tions is  past,  though  they  remain  as  great  and  as 
beautiful  as  ever.  They  are  the  vague  dreams 
of  the  youth  of  man,  and  we  demand,  even  in 
poetry,  figures  nearer  to  the  type  of  reality  and 
subject  in  all  regards  to  the  laws  of  life  and 
death.  Even  when  the  romanticist  creates  a  hero 
in  whom  he  exaggerates  capacities  for  love  or 
hate  or  endurance,  we  demand  that  these  quali- 


78  ELEMENTS    OF    LITERARY    CRITICISM 

ties  be  set  in  a  background  of  the  more  or- 
dinary ones,  and  that  there  be  nothing  improb- 
able about  the  combination  or  impossible  in 
the  sequence  of  circumstances  which  modify  its 
activity. 

Romanticism  is  a  method  which  results  from  a 
certain  attitude  towards  life.  Those  who  are 
disposed  to  look  for  the  mysterious  and  like  to 
feel  that  there  is  a  providence  controlling  the 
steady  workings  of  the  laws  of  nature,  and  those 
who  have  an  unbounded  admiration  for  the  free- 
dom and  the  workings  of  the  human  will,  and 
rebel  at  what  all  feel  is  human  powerlessness  and 
weakness  to  control  the  tide  of  events,  all  those 
who  cannot  bear  to  feel  that  men  are  borne  along, 
rudderless  boats  on  the  stream  of  destiny,  turn 
with  pleasure  to  hear  of  characters  who  have 
achieved  the  impossible,  have  run  dreadful  risks 
and  gone  through  terrible  battles  and  come  out 
victorious.  Novels  of  this  class  will  always  be 
written  and  read,  but  as  they  depend  more  on 
incident  and  action  than  on  character  they  do 
not  illustrate  our  subject.  A  character  drawn  in 
the  romantic  method  is  unreal  in  that  it  is  con- 
trolled by  a  certain  set  of  motives,  which,  though 
human,  are  for  the  most  part  in  abeyance  in  the 
life  of  ordinary  mortals,  and  are  submerged  in 
the  struggle  for  life  and  consideration  which  keep 
all  of  us  within  the  limits  of  certain  definite  and 
mundane  activities.  Hawthorne's  character  draw- 


THE  POWER  OF  DRAWING  CHARACTER     79 

ing  is  of  this  nature.  The  motives  which  impel 
his  people  usually  have  some  direct  reference  to 
the  moral  law  or  result  from  its  violation.  They 
never  fall  into  the  ordinary  conventional  rela- 
tions to  the  world  which  all  must  occupy  nine- 
tenths  of  the  time.  They  become,  in  conse- 
quence, not  real  people,  but  symbolical  forces  in 
the  moral  struggle,  none  the  less  true  on  that 
account,  but  less  like  people  we  have  known.  At 
the  same  time  there  are  combined  with  this  one- 
sided presentation  of  character  descriptions  so 
very  true  that  we  are  persuaded  of  the  reality  of 
the  characters.  The  author  keeps  everything 
out  of  sight  which  does  not  harmonize  with  the 
mood  he  is  delineating.  With  delicate  skill  he 
depicts  aspects  of  outer  nature  which  cast  a  side- 
light on  obscure,  psychological  phenomena  as  if 
nature  recognized  them  as  real.  Zenobia,  in  the 
BlitJiedale  Romance,  is  a  noble  feminine  figure.. 
Our  sense  of  her  exuberant,  warm-blooded,  phys- 
ical life,  and  her  longing  for  unconventional  sin- 
cerity, is  heightened  by  a  thousand  little  char- 
acter touches,  until  we  forget  that  in  reality  we 
know  very  little  about  her.  We  have  been  al- 
lowed to  see  her  only  as  symbolic  of  certain  ele- 
ments of  womanhood.  Beyond  that  she  remains 
romantic  and  mysterious. 

The  wonderful  art  of  Hawthorne  is  shown  by 

the   fact    that    in  him  this  one-sided,  romantic 

.  treatment  is  not  in  the  least  theatrical.    Although 


J?0  ELRMRNTS    OF    LITERARY    CRITICISM 

his  characters  are  restricted  to  a  certain  attitude 
towards  life,  they  do  not  seem  to  be  posing.  Peo- 
ple who  assume  one  attitude  are  usually  tiresome. 
Some  slight  awkwardness  or  betrayal  of  self- 
consciousness  shows  that  the  attitude  is  unnatural 
and  suggests  to  us  that  a  person  is  not  what  he 
seems,  that  he  is  playing  a  part.  Nothing  is  more 
unpleasant  than  a  suggestion  of  untruthfulness 
in  art.  Even  in  ordinary  life  we  resent  attempts 
to  deceive  us,  and  the  most  amusing  humbug 
wearies  us  after  a  time.  But  art  is  essentially 
veracious.  It  is  a  revealing  or  disclosing  by 
some  one  who  can  see  more  than  we,  to  whose 
authority  we  gladly  surrender  ourselves  for  the 
time,  and  therefore  affectation  or  unveracity  in 
art  is  thoroughly  repulsive.  Hawthorne's  char- 
acters are  unreal,  but  by  no  means  untruthful. 
They  do  not  use  the  language  of  ordinary  con- 
versation, and  are  preoccupied  with  motives  and 
considerations  which  are  remote  from  ordinary 
experience.  We  could  make  nothing  of  Dona- 
tello  or  Miriam  or  Hester  Prynne  or  Arthur 
Dimmesdalc  if  we  met  them  in  real  life,  but  as 
they  appear  in  Hawthorne's  books  they  are 
thoroughly  consistent  to  a  definite  character  con- 
ception in  the  author's  mind,  and  it  is  so  evident 
that  their  strangeness  and  remoteness  from  the 
actual  world  proceed  from  their  inner  natures, 
and  not  from  any  temporary  whim  or  affectation, 
that  they  do  not  force   upon   us   an  unpleasant 


THE  POWER  OF  DRAWING  CHARACTER     8l 

impression  of  unreality  any  more  than  do  Shake- 
speare's Caliban  or  Ariel. 

The  method  most  in  vogue  at  present  is  the 
realistic.  It  is  based  directly  on  observation,  and 
attempts  to  give  a  transcript  of  the  world  as  it 
seems.  The  characters  depicted  act  from  the 
every-day  motives  :  social  ambition,  petty  jeal- 
ousy, family  affection,  desire  for  wealth  or  world- 
ly consideration,  some  fashionable  fad  of  the  day, 
or  at  most  from  love  of  an  individual  of  the  op- 
posite sex.  They  use  the  ordinary  language  of 
conversation,  are  interested  in  the  questions 
v^hich  are  before  the  public  and  are  subject  to 
^he  ordinary  chances  of  life.  This  method  is 
:huch  less  liable  to  fall  into  exaggerated  or  im- 
possible representation  of  life,  because  it  aims  to 
copy  faithfully  from  models.  To  observe  and  to 
narrate  observation  requires  artistic  power.  The 
writer  must  select  from  the  vast  mass  of  fact  ob- 
served, he  must  divine  at  once  the  salient  point. 
He  must  make  conversation  telling  and  epigram- 
matic and  at  the  same  time  like  real  conversation, 
ni't  like  book  discourse.  The  panorama  of  life 
di  ifts  by  most  of  us  unheeded,  and  he  who  can 
truthfully  reproduce  a  portion  of  it  is  an  artist. 
Even  if  he  does  not  "invent,"  his  imagination 
arranges  or  works  over  and  illuminates  fact. 
Howells,  James,  and  Thackeray  see  what  we 
see,  but  seeing,  they  note,  and  noting,  they  can 
reproduce  in  a  lifelike  manner  that  which  is 
6 


82  ELEMENTS    OF    LITERARY    CRITICISM 

characteristic.  Occasionally  they  do  more,  they 
divine  what  is  beneath  the  surface.  But  as  a 
rule  realistic  art  keeps  to  the  appearances,  and 
after  reading  some  of  the  novels  of  our  day  we 
find  that  we  know  the  personages  as  well  as  and 
no  better  than  we  should  if  we  had  lived  with 
them.  They  remind  us  of  people  we  have  known, 
and  are  amusing  and  entertaining.  We  get  an 
idea  of  how  they  looked  and  bore  themselves  in 
every-day  relations.  We  learn  their  little  indi- 
vidual touches  of  speech  and  manner,  their  super- 
ficial prejudices,  their  class-mark,  and  the  clothes 
of  their  soul — the  conventional  trappings  which 
shield  men  from  the  observation  of  their  fellows. 
But  as  to  how  they  would  act  in  mortal  extrem- 
ity, we  know  no  more  than  we  know  how  our 
living  acquaintances  whom  we  have  met  only  in 
the  ordinary  social  relations  would  act. 

We  demand  of  the  artist  who  draws  character 
something  more  than  we  can  do  for  ourselves. 
We  ask  to  be  shown  something  that  we  cannot 
see  every  day  of  the  week.  Under  the  super- 
ficial character  of  one  man  lurks  the  murderer  ; 
under  that  of  his  neighbor,  the  martyr.  We  ask 
the  artist  to  reveal  the  hidden  springs  of  action — 
dormant  through  many  years — unknown  to  the 
man  himself.  How  will  he  act  in  an  emergency? 
What  is  his  besetting  sin  ?  What  circumstances 
can  he  master  and  what  can  master  him  ?  In 
other  words,  we  want   a  solution   of   the   riddle 


THE  POWER  OF  DRAWING  CHARACTER     83 

which  some  man  is,  not  merely  a  restatement  of 
the  riddle  which  is  presented  to  us  by  every  ac- 
quaintance. It  does  not  avail  much  to  restate 
the  riddle  in  neat,  epigrammatic  language.  That 
is  a  virtual  admission  that  it  is  insoluble.  But 
the  function  of  an  artist  is  to  hazard  at  least  a 
guess  at  the  mysterious.  When  we  know  an 
acquaintance  thoroughly,  when  we  have  been 
through  real  danger  or  real  sorrow  with  him  and 
get  beneath  the  surface  and  find  there  is  some- 
thing in  which  we  can  put  confidence — then  we 
have  a  friend.  We  take  an  infinite  comfort  from 
him,  we  feel  respect.  So  it  is  with  the  characters 
of  fiction.  The  society  of  Hamlet  is  a  stimulant 
and  a  solace.  Macbeth  and  Othello  are  interest- 
ing  because  we  have  seen  them  under  strain. 
No  doubt  Mr.  Howells's  people  would  be  so,  too, 
if  only  we  knew  them  better  than  they  will  let 
us.  But  the  same  thing  is  true  of  them  that  is 
true  of  the  people  we  meet  every  day — either 
there  is  very  little  in  them,  or,  what  is  more  prob- 
able, they  keep  a  great  deal  back.  Realism  is  too 
simple  a  method  to  do  full  justice  to  such  com- 
plicated subjects  as  human  character  and  human 
society.  It  cannot  render  even  the  surface  truth- 
fully. A  blue -print  may  repeat  the  lines  of  a 
mechanical  drawing  accurately,  but  a  blue-print 
of  life  is  not  art  and  is  not  nature.  The  phrase 
"to  report  fact"  has  a  scientific  sound,  but  Avhat 
is  fact  ?     There  is  the  external  fact  as  you  and  I 


84  ELEMKXTS    OF    LITERARY    CRITICISM 

see  it,  about  which  we  should  probably  disagree. 
Then  there  is  the  fact  as  genius  sees  it,  entirely 
different  from  the  fact  as  we  saw  it ;  then  the 
fact  behind  the  fact  which  genius  divines.  To 
report  an  isolated  fact  truthfully  may  be  possible, 
but  to  report  a  series  of  facts  v/hich  reflect  char- 
acter is  an  entirely  different  matter.  They  are 
too  numerous  to  be  tabulated,  consequently  only 
a  very  small  proportion  can  be  reported.  Every- 
thing depends  on  the  selection  made  and  the 
order  in  which  they  are  presented.  Genius  seizes 
on  the  significant  ones  and  arranges  them  in  a 
certain  succession  so  as  to  create  a  certain  im- 
pression ;  repeats  one  of  them  over  and  over, 
and  suppresses  the  general  body  of  events  that 
result  from  the  simple  reactions  of  a  mind  on  its 
environment.  Realism  is  apt  to  make  too  much 
of  the  power  of  the  environment  in  shaping  the 
character  to  a  nerveless  determinism,  and  ro- 
manticism is  prone  to  over-estimate  the  power  of 
the  human  will.  Exaggerated  realism  is  decided- 
ly preferable  to  exaggerated  romanticism,  because 
it  is  simply  commonplace ;  the  latter  is  false  and 
ridiculous. 

Great  character- artists,  like  Shakespeare  or 
George  Eliot  or  Meredith,  cannot  be  confined  to 
either  method.  In  Henry  V.,  whenever  the  king 
is  speaking  as  king  he  assumes  the  heroic  style 
and  uses  blank-verse  only.  Both  his  sentiments 
and  his  words  are  noble  and  elevated,  as  becomes 


THE  POWER  OF  DRAWING  CHARACTER     85 

a  king  of  England.  But  when  he  is  disguised  as 
a  private  soldier,  he  talks  to  the  soldiers  he  meets 
in  the  most  delightfully  realistic  manner.  Again 
the  accessories  and  atmosphere  may  be  romantic 
and  the  characters  drawn  with  startling  realism. 
Thus  in  Hamlet  we  have  a  mysterious  ghost,  a 
castle,  a  court,  all  of  these  vague  and  shadowy, 
calling  on  the  imagination  for  much  exercise  ; 
then  the  realistic  figures — Horatio,  Polonius,  and 
the  rest — for,  although  they  speak  for  the  most 
part  in  blank- verse,  the  movement  of  their  minds 
is  simple  and  natural.  Indeed,  when  they  do  use 
verse  it  has  much  of  the  movement  of  conversa- 
tion. 

If  the  romantic  method  is  exaggerated  we  have 
caricature.  If  some  peculiarity  is  isolated  and 
continual  attention  is  called  to  it,  we  end  by  hav- 
ing in  our  minds  a  grotesque  figure,  physical  and 
mental.  Nearly  all  of  the  characters  of  Dickens 
are  of  this  nature.  He  has  the  art  to  select  amus- 
ing peculiarities  and  a  never-failing  fund  of  high 
spirits  in  presenting  them,  otherwise  the  antics 
of  his  grotesque  creations  would  become  painful 
after  a  few  appearances.  As  it  is  his  character 
drawing  is  very  primitive,  and  his  books  depend 
for  their  popularity  on  other  qualities.  Balzac, 
too,  is  a  caricaturist,  but  he  seizes  on  some  ab- 
normal moral  development,  and  his  characters 
have  a  terrible  and  fascinating  power.  He  cari- 
catures demons.     Dickens  caricatures  men  and 


86  ELEMENTS   OF    LITERARY    CRITICISM 

women — very  ordinary  men  and  women.  Balzac 
is  a  man.  Dickens  is  a  sentimentalist.  Balzac  is 
a  pessimist,  Dickens  an  optimist,  asserting  that 
the  world  is  all  right — even  the  rogues  so  amus- 
ing as  to  be  indispensable  —  yet  their  methods 
are  the  same  —  the  method  of  intensifying  the 
striking  peculiarity.  Both,  too,  are  realists  up 
to  a  certain  point — that  is,  the  description  of  ex- 
ternals— yet  even  in  that  their  tendency  to  exag- 
gerate is  evident. 

George  Eliot  is  one  of  the  great  character- 
artists.  She  has  power  of  observation  and  can 
report  fact.  She  has  insight  and  can  illuminate 
fact.  She  first  discovered  that  children  have 
childlike  characters.  Maggie  and  Tom  Tulliver 
are  the  first  children  in  literature.  Dickens's 
children  act  like  children,  but  resemble  children 
just  as  his  grown  people  resemble  men  and  wom- 
en. We  must  feel  a  liking  for  Miss  Edge  worth's 
wholesome  little  English  girls  and  boys,  although 
they  embody  not  much  more  than  the  ideal  of 
the  conscientious  nursery  governess.  But  George 
Eliot's  children  are  young  human  beings.  Her 
principal  characters  have  both  reality  and  power. 
Dorothea  Brooke  is  a  noble  creature,  a  great 
woman,  capable  of  devotion  and  self-sacrifice, 
capable,  too,  of  sustaining  others.  Her  nature 
is  on  broad  and  simple  lines,  yet  we  understand 
it.  We  know  Dorothea  and  are  the  better  for  it. 
Grandcourt  in  Daniel  Dcronda  is  another  great 


THE  POWER  OF  DRAWING  CHARACTER     87 

creation,  the  thoroughly  conscienceless  man,  so 
hard  and  cruel  that  we  are  afraid  of  him.  There 
is  hardly  one  of  George  Eliot's  characters  that  is 
not  well  drawn,  though  not  always  so  well  con- 
ceived as  those  we  have  mentioned.  Daniel  De- 
ronda  himself  seems  to  be  the  only  conspicuous 
failure.  In  him  the  artist  seems  a  little  uncer- 
tain, or  not  quite  able  to  realize  her  conception. 
It  was  a  very  difficult  character  to  draw — full 
of  complicated  impulses,  ancestral  and  acquired. 
George  Eliot  is  a  realist  with  insight  into  human 
nature,  with  insight  not  merely  into  one  region 
but  into  many  regions  of  the  heart  and  soul  of 
man.  We  may  have  rather  too  many  epigrams, 
a  little  too  much  philosophic  reflection  on  hu- 
man nature  and  human  society,  but  when  the 
people  come  in  they  talk,  they  are  real  people, 
not  the  lay-figures  of  the  logician  nor  the  pup- 
pets of  the  wit. 

The  greatness  of  this  power  in  any  one  artist 
is  measured  by  three  things  :  first,  the  clearness  of 
his  figures,  that  which  gives  them  life  and  indi- 
vidualfty  ;  second,  the  range  of  characters  ;  third, 
the  number.  In  all  of  these  points  Shakespeare's 
pre-eminence  is  marked.  All  of  his  figures  have 
individuality — their  words  and  acts  proceed  from 
a  human  heart,  of  the  nature  of  which  the  writer 
has  a  clear  notion.  We  can  hardly  doubt  that 
Falstaff  was  as  real  to  him  as  Ben  Jonson,  or 
Romeo  as  William  Herbert.     In  range  he  passes 


88  ELEMENTS    OF    LITERARY    CRITICISM 

over  the  entire  field  of  human  nature,  including 
both  sexes,  all  ages,  and  conditions,  noting  ethnic 
peculiarities  in  his  Roman  plays  or  the  barbaric 
petulance  of  the  Celt  in  Lear.  He  even  passes 
below  the  lower  limit  of  the  human  in  Caliban. 
He  brings  out  the  essential  elements  of  character, 
giving  the  conventional  and  the  adventitious 
their  proper  subordinate  place.  In  number  it 
may  be  that  he  is  exceeded  by  Balzac  and  Scott, 
but  in  variety  and  individuality  no  one  equals 
him.  Leaving  out  the  strictly  subordinate  char- 
acters, there  are  in  the  plays  of  undoubted  Shake- 
spearian authorship  two  hundred  and  forty -six 
distinctly  marked  personalities,  an  intellectual 
product  far  superior  to  that  accomplished  by  any 
other  man  that  ever  lived.  The  number  is  made 
up  by  counting  only  those  which  have  in  the 
reader's  mind  a  distinct  individuality,  and  omit- 
ting the  following  plays  entirely  :  Richard  ///., 
Tiuion  of  Athens,  Troilus  and  Cressida,  Henry 
VIIL,  and  the  three  parts  of  Henry  V/.,  either 
by  reason  of  some  doubt  of  Shakespeare's  entire 
authorship  or  because  his  manner  of  sharply  out- 
lining a  character  and  definitely  filling  it  out  is 
not  evident  in  them.  Duplicate  characters  are 
not  counted  except  Henry  V.,  who  appears  first 
as  a  youth,  then  as  a  man. 

In  clearness  and  individuality  of  her  characters 
George  Eliot  is  hardly  inferior  to  Shakespeare. 
Her  personages  are  well  rounded  out  human  fig- 


THE  POWER  OF  DRAWING  CHARACTER     89 

ures,  though  lacking  in  the  full,  rich  human  nat- 
ure of  Shakespeare's.  But  they  are  confined  to 
the  genus  Englishman  of  the  early  nineteenth 
century,  with  the  exception  of  the  fifteenth  cen- 
tury Italians  in  Roniola,  and  do  not  embrace 
types  of  the  man  universal.  They  are  insular 
and  contemporaneous.  This  must  be  true  of  any 
thorough-going  realist  who  depends  for  raw  ma- 
terial on  the  world  about  him.  Observation  is 
very  apt  to  hold  a  writer  on  the  outer  surface  of 
character.  It  is  the  accumulated  observation  of 
the  past,  the  observation  of  thoughtful  men  of 
all  ages  stored  up  in  old  books,  that  lets  us  be- 
neath the  surface,  that  shows  us  all  varieties  of 
men,  not  merely  the  modern  of  our  streets  and 
fields.  In  affluence  George  Eliot  is  not  remark- 
able. MiddleuiarcJi  is  a  broad  canvas,  but  it  is 
not  very  closely  crowded.  The  figures  are  all 
carefully  painted.  If  any  criticism  is  made  of 
the  book  it  might  be  charged  with  lack  of  unity 
of  interest,  Lydgate  being  almost  as  interesting 
as  Dorothea  herself.  There  are  four  distinct  love 
affairs,  besides  the  parody  of  Mr.  Casaubon's  court- 
ship. MiddlcinarcJi  contains  twenty-two  distinct 
figures,  enough  to  make  the  fortune  of  any  nov- 
elist—  enough,  in  fact,  to  furnish  four  distinct 
narratives  if  economized  in  the  Trollope  man- 
ner. 

Taking  all  of  George  Eliot's  books,  the  char- 
acters number  one  hundred  and  seven,  against 


90  ELEMENTS    OF    LITERARY    CRITICISM 

forty  of  Thackeray's  and  one  hundred  and  two 
of  Dickens's.  In  Thackeray  and  EHot  we  include 
only  those  which  evince  conception,  thought,  and 
study  on  the  part  of  the  writer.  The  large  num- 
ber of  characters  credited  to  Dickens  cannot  be 
taken  as  any  certain  criterion  of  mental  work, 
and  many  of  Thackeray's  slight  sketches  of  ser- 
vants and  persons  who  appear  but  once  or  twice 
and  are  excluded  from  his  list,  are  admirable  as 
far  as  they  go.  Just  as  an  artist  of  talent  can 
fill  a  sheet  with  grotesque  faces  in  an  hour  with- 
out fatigue  and  without  the  exercise  of  much 
invention,  whereas  an  artist  of  genius  might 
require  weeks  of  careful  labor,  reflection,  and 
thought  before  he  could  transfer  to  his  canvas 
the  image  that  arises  before  him,  haunting,  yet 
elusive,  so  there  is  no  reason  why  Dickens  should 
not  multiply  his  sketches  ad  infitiituui.  Of  course 
great  talent  is  necessary  to  this  rapid  outlining 
of  personal  peculiarities — all  amusing,  all  slight- 
ly different,  all  contorted,  and  bearing  about  as 
much  resemblance  to  character  as  ]\Ir.  Palmer 
Cox's  quaint  Brownies  do  to  portraits. 

One  of  the  points  in  which  the  artist  in  words 
has  an  advantage  over  the  artist  in  pigments  is 
that  the  former  can  show  the  character  develop- 
ing under  the  pressure  of  circumstance.  The 
limits  of  the  drama,  it  is  true,  confine  it  to  the 
unfolding  of  an  elemental  passion.  The  action 
must  rush  on  tumultuously.     Romeo  must  fall  in 


THE  POWER  OF  DRAWING  CHARACTER     91 

love,  kill  Tybalt,  taste  the  bitterness  of  exile,  pass 
from  happiness  to  despair  and  suicide  in  the 
space  of  a  week,  but  there  is  no  break  between 
the  personal  identity  of  the  Romeo  of  the  first 
act  and  the  Romeo  of  the  fifth  act.  Ambition 
takes  possession  of  the  loyal  soldier,  Macbeth. 
He  became  treacherous,  murderous,  gloomy,  des- 
perate, till  his  human  nature  seems  to  have  left 
him.  But  ]\Iacbeth,  the  soldier,  is  the  same  per- 
son as  Macbeth,  the  unbearable  tyrant.  His  nat- 
ure merely  expands  under  our  eyes  like  some 
tropical  fiower.  He  is  potentially  a  criminal 
when  he  crosses  the  blasted  heath,  and  from  the 
first  says  and  does  nothing  inconsistent  with  the 
principle  that  when  the  circumstances  are  favor- 
able a  man  deteriorates  with  such  rapidity  that 
we  say  he  has  changed,  though  we  kncvr  ne  is 
the  same.  The  novelist  has,  of  course,  a  more 
ample  field  than  the  dramatist.  George  Eliot 
can  follow  Tom  and  Maggie  Tulliver  from  child- 
hood to  their  tragic  deaths.  The  fair  young 
souls  open  under  natural  influences.  So  Thacke- 
ray takes  young  Pendennis  from  childhood  to 
manhood,  noting  the  effect  on  him  of  each  of  the 
influences  that  mould  the  character  of  the  Eng- 
lish boy,  prominent  among  them,  as  is  natural, 
the  mother's  love.  The  inferiority  of  the  grasp 
of  Dickens  on  human  life  is  shown  in  David  Cop- 
perfield,  who  remains  unreal  among  the  striking- 
ly realistic  scenes  in  which  he  moves,  and  is  un- 


92  ELEMENTS    OF    LITERARY    CRITICISM 

developed  from  boyhood  to  manhood,  though  he 
IS  constantly  calling  attention  to  the  changes 
that  are  going  on  in  him.  This  noting  the  de- 
velopment of  a  character  is  one  of  the  highest 
elements  of  the  art.  It  is  difficult  enough  to  de- 
pict a  character  fully  complete  and  rounded,  but 
to  trace  the  coming  to  the  surface  of  hidden 
qualities,  the  gradual  deterioration  under  the 
stress  of  circumstances,  as  George  Eliot  has  done 
in  Tito  Melema,  or  the  influence  of  a  great  pas- 
sion or  of  another  strong  character,  as  in  Mac- 
beth, is  infinitely  more  difficult,  and  to  trace  the 
gradual  unfolding  of  the  youth  into  the  man  is 
hardly  less  so.  We  may  note  a  splendid  example 
in  Shakespeare's  Henry  V.  In  the  young  Prince 
Henry  may  be  discerned  something  of  the  mas- 
terful temper,  the  energy,  and  the  intellectual 
acuteness  that  distinguish  the  heroic  king.  There 
is  a  disposition  towards  practical  jesting  and  a 
soldierly  bonhoniie  combined  with  a  sense  of  per- 
sonal dignity  in  both.  Henry,  the  prince,  plots 
with  Poins  to  rob  Falstaff.  Henry,  the  king, 
passes  himself  off  as  a  private  on  the  soldiers 
Bates  and  Williams.  The  tone  of  the  moralizing 
in  the  scene  when  Prince  Hal  says  to  Poins, 

"  By  my  troth,  I  do  now  remember  the  poor  creature, 
small  beer.  But  indeed  these  humble  considerations 
make  me  out  of  love  with  my  greatness," 

is  radically  the  same  as  that  in  the  scene  in  Hen- 


THE  POWER  OF  DRAWING  CHARACTER     93 

ry  v.,  when  the  king,  in  his  assumed  character  of 
private  soldier,  says  to  Bates  : 

"  I  think  the  king  is  but  a  man  as  I  am  :  the  violet 
smells  to  him  as  it  doth  to  me;  all  his  senses  have  but 
human  conditions:  his  ceremonies  laid  by,  in  his  naked- 
ness he  appears  but  a  man ;  and  though  his  affections 
are  higher  mounted  than  ours,  yet  when  they  stoop, 
they  stoop  with  the  like  wing.  Therefore  when  he  sees 
reason  of  fears,  as  we  do,  his  fears  out  of  doubt  be  of 
the  same  relish  as  ours  are." 

The  youth  is  the  father  of  the  man.  His  dis- 
position to  look  in  a  practical  way  at  the  con- 
tradictions of  the  world  and  not  attempt  any 
solution  has  developed.  In  both  cases  his  execu- 
tive energy  soon  asserts  itself.  He  turns  with 
great  zest  in  the  first  instance  to  carrying  out  a 
plan  to  shame  Falstaff,  and  in  the  second,  to 
making  everything  ready  for  the  battle  with  the 
French. 

It  is  surprising  in  ho\v  few  words  a  great  ar- 
tist can  make  a  character  reveal  itself.  Hamlet 
speaks  thirteen  hundred  and  tAventy-seven  lines 
in  a  play  of  three  thousand  seven  hundred  and 
forty  lines,  and  speaks  three  hundred  and  forty- 
six  times.  But  we  receive  a  definite  impression 
of  Ophelia,  who  speaks  but  forty-five  times,  and 
but  one  hundred  and  sixty-five  lines  in  all.  Ham- 
let is,  of  course,  a  more  complex  character  than 
Ophelia,  and  needs  more  room  in  which  to  display 


94  ELEMENTS    OF    LITERARY    CRITICISM 

his  intellectual  affluence  ;  but  a  negative  char- 
acter, like  Ophelia,  is  a  very  dil^cult  one  to  draw. 
The  wreck  of  Lear's  royal  nature  needs  six  hun- 
dred and  fifty-seven  lines  and  one  hundred  and 
eighty-three  speeches  for  its  representation.  The 
entire  play  extends  to  thirty-two  hundred  and 
fifty  lines  ;  but  Cordelia,  in  the  beginning  of  the 
play,  has  but  twelve  speeches  and  forty-eight  lines 
given  her,  and  then  she  is  withdrawn.  In  the 
fifth  act  she  reappears  and  speaks  eighteen  times. 
In  all,  but  one  hundred  and  eighteen  lines  are 
given  to  this  embodiment  of  noble,  loving,  gra- 
cious womanhood.  Yet  the  result  is  that  Cor- 
delia is  no  less  real  and  complete  a  figure  than 
Lear  himself.  It  is  true  that  Cordelia  is  referred 
to  by  others  several  times,  and  that  we  judge  her 
partly  by  the  place  she  holds  in  her  father's 
heart.  Further,  she  is  intensified  by  contrast. 
In  the  first  scene  we  see  her  only  as  a  high- 
spirited  girl,  perhaps  slightly  too  uncompromis- 
ing, and  so  disgusted  by  the  sycophantic  hypoc- 
risy of  her  sisters  that  she  disdains  to  enter  into 
any  comparison  with  them,  and  severs  the  family 
bond  rather  than  parade  her  feelings  in  public. 
She  retires,  and  the  repellent  heartlessness  of 
Goneril  and  Regan  covers  the  successive  scenes 
with  the  blackness  of  hell.  On  this  background 
Cordelia  appears  for  a  moment,  a  radiant  angel 
of  love,  and  then  is  murdered.  The  effect  is 
overpowering.     We  receive  an  impression  of  the 


THE  POWER  OF  DRAWING  CHARACTER     95 

possible  depths  of  tenderness  that  we  can  never 
forget — and  it  is  made  by  some  three  or  four 
hundred  words. 

That  Shakespeare  keeps  his  heroes  on  the  stage 
so  much  of  the  time  and  allows  his  women  to 
talk  so  little  may  possibly  be  due  to  the  practical 
reason  that  an  excellent  actor,  whose  capabilities 
and  appearance  were  in  his  mind  as  he  wrote, 
could  take  one  part  and  the  other  must  be  in- 
trusted to  boys.  But  it  certainly  shows  how 
genius  can  economize  its  material  or  be  lavish 
with  it,  and  yet  produce  the  great  effect.  Cor- 
delia and  Ophelia  are  not  outline  sketches,  nor 
in  any  real  sense  subordinate  figures.  Merely 
outlining  or  suggesting  accessory  personages  to 
the  central  group  is  a  different  matter  from  the 
full  presentation-  of  a  personality.  In  this  sug- 
gesting the  supernumeraries  the  artist's  tact  and 
skill,  rather  than  his  penetration  and  genius,  are 
factors.  George  Eliot  and  Dickens  are  especial- 
ly happy  in  filling  their  background  with  minor 
figures.  They  come  in  on  every  chapter  and  are 
dismissed,  but  number  more  than  the  full-length 
portraits.  In  King  John ^  a  servant,  James  Gur- 
ney,  appears.  He  speaks  but  once,  and  only  four 
words.  Coleridge  said  that  these  four  words, 
"  Good  leave,  good  Philip,"  said  to  his  master, 
Fhilip  Faulconbridge,  were  precisely  the  ones  to 
portray  the  respectful  familiarity  of  a  faithful 
old  servant  to  his  young  master.     This  seems  to 


96  ELEMENTS    OP    LITERARY    CRITICISM 

be  carrying  the  maxim  that  "  Shakespeare  can  do 
nothing  but  right "  too  far. 

A  question  arises  how  far  ilhistration  by  en- 
gravings aids  a  reader  in  forming  a  vivid  con- 
ception of  the  characters  presented  in  a  novel. 
Doubtless,  the  two  arts — the  pictorial  and  the  lit- 
erary— can  aid  one  another.  Doubtless,  pictorial 
illustrations  are,  up  to  a  certain  point,  an  aid  to 
the  imagination.  Whether  they  aid  our  imagi- 
nations in  the  right  way  is  another  question ; 
whether  it  is  well  to  have  the  imagination  aided 
in  that  way  is  still  another.  It  is  safe  to  say  that 
as  a  rule  illustrations  are  not  desirable,  unless  it 
be  in  books  for  children,  both  because  they  are 
rarely  artistically  competent,  and  because  they 
create  a  sluggish  habit  of  mind.  Certainly  no 
one  cares  to  read  an  illustrated  Shakespeare  or 
Dante  or  Don  Quixote.  It  is  hardly  possible  for 
any  one  to  illustrate  Browning's  Tlic  Ring  and 
the  Book  or  the  Blot  in  the  'Scutcheon  or  Pippa 
Passes  adequately.  Some  persons  readily  form  a 
visual  image  in  their  mind,  and  can  call  up  in 
their  memories  the  exact  features  of  their  friends, 
and  yet  have  a  very  vague  and  meagre  concep- 
tion of  character.  Others  have  a  lively  and  vivid 
impression  of  the  personalities  of  their  friends, 
but  cannot  summon  up  an  image  of  their  forms 
or  features.  The  literary  art  of  drawing  char- 
acter appeals  to  this  last  power.  It  does  not  aim 
at  creating  exact  conceptions  of  the  bodies  or 


THE  POWER  OF  DRAWING  CHARACTER     97 

forms  of  material  things.  It  is  not  of  the  slight- 
est consequence  how  Romeo  looked,  nor  what 
was  the  height  or  weight  of  Caliban.  Such  mat- 
ters are  the  affair  of  the  painter.  The  great 
painter  cannot  be  a  great  literary  artist.  The 
visions  one  sees  crowd  out  the  visions  the  other 
sees.  If  Shakespeare  had  possessed  the  knack  of 
drawing,  it  is  not  probable  that  he  could  have 
written  As  You  Like  It.  The  artist  who  illus- 
trates and  the  artist  who  writes  a  book  must  be 
in  accord.  They  must  see  men  and  things  from 
the  same  stand-point.  They  must  rise  to  equal 
heights.  The  only  way  for  them  to  do  this — un- 
less they  chance  to  be  spiritual  duplicates,  or  un- 
less the  writer  be  dominant  and  the  illustrator 
wonderfully  receptive  —  is  for  both  of  them  to 
look  at  the  subject-matter  from  the  same  conven- 
tional stand-point,  and  relegate  the  higher  and 
more  individual  qualities  of  the  imagination  to 
the  background.  But  unless  the  creative  imagi- 
nation is  unhampered  there  will  be  no  fine  and 
delicate  art.  When  the  author  makes  his  own 
drawings,  there  will  be  a  substantial  harmony  of 
interpretation  in  illustrations  and  text.  Thack- 
eray and  Du  jMaurier  are  examples  of  this,  but 
the  questions  may  well  be  asked  is  Du  Maurier's 
text  much  more  than  an  explanation  of  his  pict- 
ures, and  would  not  Thackeray  have  been  greater 
as  a  writer  if  he  had  not  amused  himself  with 
drawing  ? 
7 


98  ELEMENTS    OF    LITERARY    CRITICISM 

This  power  of  clearly  conceiving  character  and 
transferring  the  conception  to  the  pages  of  a 
book,  so  that  the  intelligent  reader  receives  the 
pleasure  which  a  work  of  art  gives,  is  one  of  the 
marks  of  genius.  It  was  given  to  Charlotte 
Bronte,  to  Jane  Austen,  and  to  George  Eliot,  and 
to  Thackeray,  Hawthorne,  and  Meredith.  Genius 
is  independent  of  sex,  and  so  is  the  capacity  of 
apprehending  the  work  of  genius — in  fact,  it  is  the 
test  of  genius  that  its  work  should  be  universal- 
ly apprehended.  It  is  true  that  men  are  apt 
to  idealize  women  and  women  to  idealize  men, 
yet  the  worst  woman  of  modern  English  fiction, 
Becky  Sharp,  is  the  creation  of  a  man,  and  the 
worst  men — Tito  Melema  and  Henleigh  Grand- 
court — are  the  creations  of  a  woman.  It  would 
seem  as  if  the  ability  to  understand  and  interpret 
nobility  and  unselfishness  carried  with  it  the 
power  of  conceiving  the  antithesis  of  nobility  and 
unselfishness.  Certainly  human  nature  cannot 
be  apprehended  unless  we  know  that  it  has  vast 
reach  far  beyond  the  power  of  circumstance  to 
develop  or  of  heredity  to  transmit.  Most  of  us 
lead  sheltered  lives.  "We  do  not  come  in  contact 
with  crime.  We  are  hedged  in  by  a  wall  of  con- 
vention, which  hides  human  nature  from  our  view. 
In  this  world  spirit  flits  by  spirit,  but  the  faces 
of  all  are  masked.  j\Iost  of  these  masks  have  the 
same  vacant,  unreal  expression.  The  fixed  gri- 
mace of  society  hides  the  real  man  and  woman. 


THE  POWER  OF  DRAWING  CHARACTER     99 

We  become  sometimes  dreadfully  weary  of  these 
masks,  and  long  to  know  a  true  person.  The 
literary  artist  who  merely  comments  on  the  pe- 
culiarity and  ingenuity  of  these  masks,  who  re- 
ports external  fact — although  he  may  do  it  with 
Qfreat  liveliness  and  humor — soon  becomes  tire- 
some.  He  is  read  eagerly  for  a  while  to  see  if  he 
has  anything  real  to  say,  and  then  thrown  aside. 
The  artist  who  removes  this  mask,  it  may  be  for  a 
moment  only,  and  gives  us  a  glimpse  of  a  real 
person,  renders  us  a  service  by  showing  us  that 
humanity  is  as  interesting  and  varied  as  nat- 
ure. HejiYlio_showsjis_that  we  live  in  a  world  of 
spirits  and  not  merely  of  forms,  treats  of  matters 
on  which  man's  curiosity  is  inexhaustible,  and 
each  generation  reads  his  book  with  eagerness  ; 
for  his  subject-matter  is  forces  which  are  eternal, 
and  not  phenomena,  which  are  transient.  The 
one  may  amuse  ;  the  other  teaches. 


CHAPTER   IV 

THE    writer's    philosophy. 

A  MAN  is  continually  receiving  impressions  and 
reacting  on  them.  He  receives  impressions  from 
inanimate  nature,  from  living  things,  and  from 
books.  The  reaction  is  modified  by  numerous 
postulates  and  axioms,  principles  that  he  uncon- 
sciously takes  for  granted.  Some  of  these  prin- 
ciples have  been  born  with  him — they  belong  to 
the  race  or  family  of  which  he  is  a  member;  others 
he  has  acquired  from  experience  and  education. 
They  weaken  and  limit  or  reinforce  each  other  in 
countless  ways.  Among  them  are  love  of  truth, 
love  of  beauty,  regard  for  the  opinions  of  others, 
regard  for  personal  comfort,  loyalty  to  humanity 
at  large,  loyalty  to  the  nation,  and  many  other 
primary  impulses  which  appear  in  many  different 
forms  and  make  up  a  complex  of  tendencies  which 
color  all  judgments  and  criticisms  of  life.  For 
want  of  a  better  term  we  may  term  this  complex 
of  tendencies,  so  far  as  it  influences  a  man's  writ- 
ings, the  writer's  philosophy.  As  far  as  it  influ- 
ences a  man's  conduct  we  call  it  his  character ; 


THE    WRITER  S   PHILOSOPHY  lOI 

but  a  man  with  a  pen  in  his  hand,  expressing  his 
impressions  of  the  world  and  of  men,  is  in  many- 
ways  so  different  from  the  same  man  in  contact 
with  the  real  world  that  we  are  justified  in  using 
the  two  terms.  As  a  rule,  the  ethical  standard 
of  the  writer  is  higher  than  that  which  he  aims 
to  reach  in  practical  life.  Francis  Bacon  is  often 
named  as  an  example  of  this  inequality.  But  in 
many  cases  the  rule  does  not  hold  good,  and  the 
writer  is  better  than  his  books  would  lead  us  to 
suppose  he  (or  she)  is. 

Another  view  may  make  more  clear  what  is 
meant  by  "  the  writer's  philosophy."  An  artistic 
production  is  a  compromise  between  two  influ- 
ences or  between  two  views  of  life.  One  of  these 
is  the  world  as  the  writer  sees  it,  and  the  other 
the  world  as  he  thinks  it  ought  to  be  ;  or,  one  is 
the  world  as  it  seems,  and  the  other  is  the  world 
as  he  thinks  it  really  is.  The  writer  transfuses 
his  report  of  appearances  with  his  conception  of 
the  ideal,  sometimes  he  translates  it  into  terms 
of  the  ideal.  To  every  man  the  world  as  he  sees 
it  depends  on  his  physical  organization  and  upon 
the  way  he  has  been  taught  to  look  at  it  through 
education  and  years  of  experience.  His  ideal  de- 
pends partly  upon  his  education,  but  more  on  his 
intimate  and  innate  disposition.  His  artistic 
production,  being  an  attempt  to  reconcile  these 
or  to  emphasize  the  contrast  between  them,  is 
colored  by  both  his  feeling  for  the  world  as  it 


I02  ELEMENTS   OF    LITERARY   CRITICISM 

seems  and  his  conception  of  the  world  as  it  ought 
to  be.  This  notion  of  the  world  as  it  ought  to 
be,  or  as  he  would  like  it  to  be,  is  substantially 
the  result  of  the  man's  radical,  unconscious  prin- 
ciples, and  may,  without  violence  to  the  ordinary 
usage,  be  termed  the  writer's  philosophy. 

The  word  "  philosophy  "  in  this  sense  has  no 
reference  to  the  metaphysical  doctrines  a  man 
has  learned  or  the  religious  creed  he  professes. 
These  are  held  consciously,  and  as  far  as  a  man 
writes  with  them  definitely  in  view,  so  far  his 
work  tends  to  fall  outside  of  the  class  of  artistic 
productions.  It  is  the  doctrine  or  creed  on  which 
a  man  acts,  not  that  which  he  professes,  which 
characterizes  his  literary  product.  A  man  may 
claim  to  be  a  pessimist,  and  yet  be  at  the  bottom 
kindly  and  hopeful.  Another  may  regard  the 
world  as  a  playground,  and  yet  adhere  to  Calvin- 
istic  theories  ;  another  may  regard  it  as  a  battle- 
field, and  profess  to  be  an  Epicurean  ;  one  man 
may  say  with  conviction  "  all  men  are  liars,"  and 
yet  at  the  bottom  hold  to  the  sacredness  of  the 
spoken  word ;  another  may  talk  about  the  trust- 
worthiness and  perfectibility  of  man,  and  yet  in 
reality  regard  truth  as  a  convention  to  be  re- 
spected only  so  far  as  it  holds  society  together — 
in  fact,  be  radically  a  false  person.  But  the  un- 
derlying quality  of  a  man's  mind  pervades  his 
work,  no  matter  how  he  tries  to  make  prominent 
his  conventional  creed,  metaphysical  or  religious. 


THE    WRITER  S    PHILOSOPHY  T03 

Sincerity  and  simplicity  of  interpretation  char- 
acterize true  art,  and  these  demand  that  a  man 
express  himself  in  accordance  with  his  true  nat- 
ure. In  fact,  a  man  cannot  keep  his  real  char- 
acter out  of  his  work.  He  may  call  himself  a 
"realist"  or  a  "  veritist,"  but  as  soon  as  he  begins 
to  "  report  fact  "  we  find  that  his  report  is  colored 
by  the  inner  nature  of  the  man.  He  would  not 
be  an  artist  at  all  were  it  not.  In  fact,  his  con- 
sciously held  theory  of  realism  is  of  about  as  lit- 
tle consequence  as  his  religious  creed  or  lack  of 
one.  It  determines  his  method  only,  whereas 
the  real  worth  of  character  and  distinction  of  his 
work  depends  largely  on  his  unconscious  philos- 
ophy. 

In  general  treatment  and  style  some  writers 
manage  to  convey  a  more  vivid  impression  of 
themselves  than  others  do.  In  some  cases  the 
individuality  of  a  writer  seems  to  pervade  his 
work,  in  others  he  seems  more  aloof  and  reserved 
and  impersonal.  In  Stevenson's  and  in  Charles 
Lamb's  essays  we  seem  to  come  into  contact  with 
quaint  and  delightful  companions.  It  is  impos- 
sible not  to  feel  friendly  to  them.  This  is  not 
due  to  the  writer's  philosophy,  but  to  his  posses- 
sion of  a  confidential  and  friendly  disposition. 
This  aft'ects  his  manner,  the  other  nis  underlying 
thought.  He  indulges  in  confidr-iit-'al  remarks 
as  if  talking  with  a  friend  insteaa  of  keeping  in 
the  background  and  letting  his  characters  make 


104  ELEMENTS   OF    LITERARY   CRITICISM 

the  advances.  Thackeray  rather  overdoes  the 
direct  address  to  the  reader  in  some  cases.  But 
whatever  the  manner,  the  writer's  philosophy 
gives  substance  to  his  work  even  if  he  adopt  the 
tone  of  banter  or  persiflage,  and  whether  he  write 
drama  or  history.  It  even  affects  lyrics,  as  is  evi- 
dent from  the  very  different  effects  produced  by 
Heine's  or  by  Longfellow's  songs.  There  is  very 
great  charm  in  personal  manner,  but  the  radical 
attitude  or  stand-point  of  the  mind,  though  cor- 
related with  manner,  is  an  entirely  different  thing, 
and  it  is  of  that  we  wish  to  speak. 

This  philosophical  substratum  of  the  mind,  or, 
more  strictly  speaking,  the  soundness  of  it,  is  in 
the  full  sense  no  part  of  the  literary  equipment ; 
it  is  not,  strictly  speaking,  a  literary  power.  A 
man  may  be  quite  indifferent  to  right  and  wrong, 
he  may  even  hold  erroneous  ideas  about  duty — 
he  may  not  look  below  the  surface  of  things  and 
yet  be  a  great  artist.  As  far  as  we  can  make 
out,  the  world  was  to  Francis  Villon  simply  a 
place  in  which  to  enjoy  the  lusts  of  the  flesh  at 
some  one  else's  expense  ;  the  moral  law,  some- 
thing to  be  broken  as  often  and  as  unrefiectively 
as  possible  ;  society,  something  to  be  preyed  on  ; 
life,  no  more  than  the  days  of  the  Carnival.  But 
so  keenly  does  he  feel  the  transitoriness  of  all 
this  and  the  discomforts  of  physical  misery,  with 
such  a  diabolic  gayety  does  he  put  his  feelings  in 
verse,  that  he  has  given  us  a  glimpse  of  extraor- 


THE    WRITER  S    PHILOSOPHY  I05 

dinary  vividness  into  the  life  and  heart  of  the 
French  vagabond  criminal.  His  work  is  art,  but 
we  can  hardly  say  that  he  has  any  philosophy, 
unless  we  should  say  that  it  consisted  in  a  total 
lack  of  sound  principle.  Again,  Swift  is  a  thor- 
ough pessimist  at  the  bottom,  although  a  pro- 
fessing, and  no  doubt  sincere,  Christian.  But 
Swift's  work  is  entitled  to  be  called  great,  great 
in  breadth  and  vigor  if  not  in  sanity  and  balance. 
Strictly  speaking,  the  literary  art  has  nothing  to 
do  with  right  or  wrong  or  with  just  and  unjust ; 
it  simply  presents.  Nevertheless,  sanity,  balance 
scope,  and  justness  of  view  add  to  the  literary 
product  something  which,  if  not  absolutely  liter- 
ary or  artistic,  is  ennobling.  Art  gives  to  thought 
form  and  concrete  body,  but  the  tone  of  the 
thought,  the  writer's  philosophy,  may  properly 
be  considered  as  a  substratum  or  foundation,  or, 
rather,  a  governing  and  characteristic  element  of 
the  work.  Its  consideration  should  be  one  of  the 
elements  of  literary  criticism.  It  seems  impossi- 
ble to  care  for  the  presentation  and  to  ignore  one 
great  characteristic  of  the  thing  presented.  We 
therefore  include  the  writer's  philosophy  or  his 
general  attitude  towards  life,  his  temperament, 
both  ethical  and  aesthetic,  in  an  outline  of  literary 
criticism. 

Chaucer's  philosophy  is  of  a  sane,  practical 
mind.  Nature  is  delightful,  but  it  is  the  quiet, 
reposeful  nature  of  southern  England.     That  the 


Io6  ELEMENTS    OF    LITERARY    CRITICISM 

sea  or  the  storms  or  any  exhibition  of  great  force 
attracted  or  excited  his  imagination  I  can  no- 
where find.  Men  and  women  are  entertaining. 
His  idea  of  virtue  is  temperance,  courage,  fidelity 
to  comrades.  He  hates  a  cheat  or  a  coward.  He 
has  a  great  deal  of  tolerance  for  the  faults  of  oth- 
ers, because  men  are  so  interesting  to  him  that 
he  can  forgive  a  good  deal  of  vulgarity  for  the 
sake  of  the  unadulterated  human  nature  it  illus- 
trates. He  detests  a  hypocrite,  especially  one 
who  trades  in  virtue  or  religion  ;  but  it  seems  to 
be  with  an  artistic  quite  as  much  as  an  ethical 
hatred  that  he  regards  hypocrisy.  He  makes  his 
villains  physically  repulsive,  and  dangerous  only 
to  dupes  of  little  discernment.  The  profound 
selfishness  and  cruelty  of  lago  covered  with  an 
exterior  of  soldier-like  frankness  is  beyond  his 
horizon.  He  does  not  scrutinize  moral  phenom- 
ena very  closely,  nor  does  the  misery  of  men  con- 
demned to  a  life  of  hopeless  toil  oppress  his 
imagination.  He  is  not  weighed  doAvn  by  the 
unsolvable  problem  of  evil.  The  world  -  vision 
of  his  contemporary,  Langland,  is  colored  by  the 
thinker's  sadness.  Langland's  image  of  the  world 
is  a  "fair  field  full  of  folk,  of  all  manner  of  man — 
the  mean  and  the  rich,  working  and  wandering." 
Some,  putting  their  hands  to  the  plough,  "played 
full  seldom,"  and  labored  hard  in  producing  what 
"gluttons  destroyed  in  riotous  excesses."  His 
imagination  is  full   of   the  thought  that  greed, 


THE    WRITER  S    PHILOSOPHY  107 

deceit,  and  selfishness  are  more  successful  and 
more  honored  than  humble,  honest  industry, 
which  is  so  often  condemned  to  a  life  of  priva- 
tion and  misery.  Chaucer  does  not  dwell  on  the 
aspect  of  the  world,  which  seems  hard  and  cruel 
and  wrong.  He  does  not  fill  his  heart  with  bit- 
terness. His  philosophy  is  sane,  but  limited.  It 
is  to  a  large  extent  "here  and  now."  He  com- 
ments on  what  he  sees  with  reference  to  immedi- 
ate consequences  and  causes.  I  need  not  say  that 
he  comments  with  delightful  piquancy  and  thor- 
ough artistic  finish.  That  is  not  the  question. 
The  poets  of  a  wider  philosophy  grow  serious 
over  deeper  -  seated  causes  and  the  triumphs  of 
wrong  in  dark  places.  Their  value  lies  in  their 
power  of  widening  our  horizon,  of  grouping  all 
things  under  universal  laws.  Chaucer's  delight 
in  nature  is  na'ive,  unaffected,  charming.  It  is 
usually  the  minute  beauties  that  lie  under  our 
eyes  that  he  calls  us  to  admire.  Thus  he  sp.ys  of 
the  daisy,  which  is  so  closely  associated  with  his 
name  : 

"  Of  all  flowers  in  the  mede, 
Then  love  I  most  these  flowers  white  and  red. 
Such  as  men  call  daisies  in  our  town. 
To  them  have  I  so  great  aff'ection, 
As  I  said  erst,  when  comen  is  the  May, 
That  in  my  bed  there  daweth  me  no  day 
Than  I  n'  am  up  and  walking  in  the  mede 
To  see  this  flower  against  the  sunne  fprede. 


Io8  ELEMENTS    OF    LITERARY    CRITICISM 

When  it  up  riseth  early  by  the  morrow, 
That  blissful  sight  softeneth  all  my  sorrow." 

Of  hell  he  says  : 

"  A  thousand  times  1  have  heard  men  tell 
That  there  is  joy  in  heaven  and  pain  in  hell. 
And  I  accord  it  well  that  it  is  so  ; 
But  natheless  yet  wot  I  well  also 
That  there  is  none  dwelling  in  this  countree 
That  either  hath  in  heaven  or  in  hell  y  be, 
Ne  may  of  it  none  other  ways  witten, 
But  as  he  heard,  said,  or  found  it  written. 
For  by  assay  there  may  no  man  it  prove." 

His  philosophy  is,  Do  not  speculate  on  the  un- 
known. Here  is  an  extremely  interesting  world 
before  our  eyes.  The  men  and  women  in  it  are 
far  more  entertaining  than  angels,  and  presuma- 
bly less  hateful  than  devils.  At  all  events,  we 
know  much  more  about  them.  Let  us  talk  about 
them,  and  smile  or  w'eep  with  them.  Each  one 
is  a  study  for  a  few  moments.  Chaucer  says, 
with  a  bright  smile  :  *'  Let  us  join  the  party  rid- 
ing to  Canterbury,  and  hear  them  chat.  By  Can- 
terbury I  do  not  mean  human  destiny.  I  mean 
a  real  town.  My  pilgrims  are  not  people  op- 
pressed by  a  heavy  sense  of  responsibility  and 
making  a  journey  of  expiation.  They  are  not 
like  Signor  Dante  or  Master  Langland.  They 
are  like  you  and  me,  making  a  journey  partly 
because  it  is  spring  and  it  irks  them  to  stay  in 


THE    WRITER  S    PHILOSOPHY  I09 

the  city ;  partly  because  it  is  the  thing  to  do ; 
partly  because  there  is  some  notion  of  propitiat- 
ing in  a  decorous  manner  a  saint  who  might  be  a 
useful  friend  in  sickness,  but  principally  because 
others  are  going.  This  party  will  amuse  us,  and 
you  need  not  be  afraid  of  being  preached  at.  It 
happens  every  year.  Come  ;  I  will  tell  you  all 
about  their  sayings  and  how  they  looked." 

But  a  man  is  not  the  less  a  poet  because  he  can 
look  at  the  world  in  a  simple,  hearty  way  and  not 
find  dark  places  and  hard  sayings  and  mystic  par- 
allelisms everywhere.  The  world  is  not  all  inac- 
cessible mountains  and  vast  deserts  lying  in  the 
gloom  of  midnight.  There  are  many  charming 
landscapes  which  can  be  caught  in  the  circle  of 
the  eye,  with  every  detail  of  which  we  can  become 
familiar,  which  bring  rest  and  satisfaction  to  the 
soul.  "  'Tis  not  well  to  live  in  perpetual  gloom 
about  what  lies  beyond  the  horizon."  Still,  as 
we  must  go  and  find  out  some  day,  we  can  hard- 
ly refrain  from  speculating  about  the  country 
"  lying  east  of  the  sun  and  west  of  the  moon." 

When  we  come  to  Shakespeare  we  find  a  mind 
of  extraordinary  catholicity.  He  has  no  particu- 
lar views  to  maintain,  any  more  than  nature  has, 
but  he  can  assume  the  point  of  view  of  characters 
radically  different.  The  writers  of  the  age  were 
much  given  to  philosophizing,  or  to  comment- 
ing epigrammatically  upon  man  and  nature.  The 
religious  discussions  of  the  day  and  the  change 


no  ELEMENTS    OF   LITERARY   CRITICISM 

in  the  general  conception  of  the  relation  of  the 
world  to  the  universe,  brought  about  by  the  con- 
viction that  the  earth  was  an  unsupported  ball 
and  surrounded  by  limitless  space,  gave  a  zest  to 
speculation.  The  number  of  philosophical  apo- 
thegms found  in  Shakespeare's  plays  is  a  mark  of 
the  age  rather  than  of  the  man.  The  profundity 
of  many  of  them,  and  the  beauty  of  form  into 
which  others  are  cast,  arises  from  the  fact  that 
Shakespeare  as  a  thinker  was  profound,  and  as  an 
artist  representative  rather  than  from  the  indi- 
vidual bent  of  his  mind.     It  is  Hamlet  that  says  : 

"There  is  nothing  good  or  bad  but  thinking  makes 
it  so ;" 

and  Hamlet  that  argues  about  suicide,  and  de- 
clares that  the  uncertainty  about  the  hereafter — 
"what  dreams  may  come"  to  disturb  uncon- 
scious sleep — is  the  main  reason  against  making 
a  man's  "quietus  with  a  bare  bodkin."  It  is 
Hamlet  who  thinks  the  world  "a  sterile  promon- 
tory," and  Hamlet  is  not  Shakespeare  ;  he  is  only 
a  part  of  Shakespeare.  When  Macbeth  says,  with 
conviction,  that  he  would  "  jump  the  life  to  come," 
we  have  no  right  to  conclude  that  Shakespeare's 
creed  was  "  risk  all  for  ambition  ;  we  know  so 
little  of  a  future  state  that  it  is  useless  to  regu- 
late conduct  by  any  consideration  of  its  effect  on 
us  after  we  are  dead,"  for  Macbeth  is  a  fatalist. 
Claudio   shrinks   with  unreasoning  terror   from 


THE    writer's    philosophy  III 

death,  and  is  willing  to  sacrifice  his  sister's  hon- 
or for  a  few  more  days  of  his  cowardly  life,  and 
shrieks,  writhing  in  abject  terror  : 

"Ay,  but  to  die  and  go  we  know  not  where; 
To  lie  in  cold  obstruction,  and  to  rot; 
This  sensible,  warm  motion  to  become 
A  kneaded  clod  ;   and  the  delighted  spirit 
To  bathe  in  fiery  floods  or  to  reside 
In  thrilling  regions  of  thick-ribbed  ice; 
To  be  imprisoned  in  the  viewless  winds 
And  blown  with  restless  violence  round  about 
The  pendent  world  ;  or  to  be  worse  than  worst 
Of  those  that  lawless  and  incertain  thoughts 
Imagine  howling!     'Tis  too  horrible! 
The  wearied  and  most  loathed  worldly  life 
That  age,  ache,  penury,  and  imprisonment 
Can  lay  on  nature,  is  a  paradise 
To  what  we  fear  of  death. 
.  .  .  Sweet  sister,  let  me  live ! 
What  sin  you  do  to  save  a  brother's  life 
Nature  dispenses  with  the  deed  so  far 
That  it  becomes  a  virtue." 

From  this  we  can  infer,  not  that  Shakespeare 
regarded  death  as  a  door  into  a  region  of  name- 
less horror,  but  that  he  knew  how  a  nerveless, 
physical  coward  and  a  soul  wrapped  up  in  self 
felt  in  the  presence  of  death,  and  could  embody 
in  words  its  agony  of  apprehension. 

It  is  not  from  expressions  put  into  the  mouth 
of  imagined  characters — imagined  so  clearly  that 


112  ELEMENTS    OF    LITERARY    CRITICISM 

they  speak  from  their  own  natures,  not  as  reflec- 
tions of  their  creator,  that  we  can  judge  Shake- 
speare's philosophy.  It  is  rather  from  the  general 
conduct  of  his  plots,  which,  though  taken  from  cur- 
rent literature,  are  usually  modified  in  their  con- 
duct and  outcome  by  the  dramatist,  that  we  can 
estimate  his  way  of  looking  at  men  and  history. 

In  examining  Shakespeare's  plots  we  see  that 
law  rules  in  them  as  it  does  in  nature.  We  see 
that  men  are  free  agents,  and  that  their  conduct  is 
followed  by  certain  inevitable  consequences,  that 
character  develops  along  the  line  of  least  resist- 
ance, that  the  single  life  may  be  thwarted,  wasted, 
sacrificed  uselessly,  but  the  life  of  the  state,  of 
humanity,  moves  on  towards  better  things  ;  that 
in  the  everlasting  conflict  between  good  and  evil 
forces  the  triumph  of  the  evil  is  temporary  and  the 
centuries  are  on  the  side  of  righteousness,  though 
the  years  be  evil  and  the  days  full  of  the  triumphs 
of  the  evil-doers.  The  author  is  wise.  Though 
he  looks  deeply  into  life  he  looks  at  it  as  a  whole. 
His  estimate  of  life  is  not  partial.  No  subordi- 
nate principle  governs  in  his  mimic  world  but 
the  universal  laws  established,  "not  for  an  age, 
but  for  all  time." 

We  will  not  attempt  to  support  these  positions 
seriatim — the  author  needs  no  labored  vindica- 
tion. Those  who  know  Shakespeare  will  feel 
that  they  are  true.  Shakespeare  knew  that  vice 
is   attractive,  fatally   attractive   sometimes,  but 


THE  writer's  philosophy  113 

the  regal  beauty  of  Cleopatra,  undisputed  "  queen 
of  all  manner  of  deliciousness,"  intoxicating  to 
the  hearts  of  men,  is  weak  compared  to  the  girl 
Miranda,  who,  though  as  ideal  as  Ariel,  is  as  real 
as  truth  itself.  Hamlet  is  a  type  of  irresolution, 
and  when  an  irresolute  will  is  brought  face  to 
face  with  the  stern  necessity  of  events  disaster 
must  follow.  The  irascible  Lear  surrenders  his 
control  of  the  external  world  to  two  demons. 
Nothing  but  ruin  can  come  from  this  stupendous 
folly  involving  the  innocent  and  the  loyal,  and 
jeoparding  the  framework  of  society.  Macbeth 
yields  to  the  temptations  of  ambition  and  com- 
mits an  awful  crime.  He  is  successful,  and  ob- 
tains a  position  for  which  he  is  in  every  way  fitted. 
But  crime  begets  crime,  a  crime  against  society 
must  be  buttressed  by  crimes  against  individuals 
until  Scotland  seems  lost.  All  these  sequences 
of  events  are  natural  and  profoundly  true.  No 
dens  ex  machina  relieves  men  from  the  embarrass- 
ments of  their  acts  or  of  their  weakness  and  folly. 
But  in  the  end  things  right  themselves.  A  trag- 
edy is  the  collision  of  forces,  rooted  in  self,  with 
eternal  law.  The  self  perishes,  the  law  endures. 
When  Claudius  and  Hamlet  are  dead  the  resolute 
soldier  Fortinbras  is  chosen  king,  and  we  foresee 
that  the  honest,  practical  Horatio  will  be  his 
chief  counsellor.  The  desperate  INIacbeth  is  killed, 
and  the  thanes  who  fled  from  him  proclaim  Mal- 
colm as  king.    In  Lear  the  loving  Cordelia  is  sac- 


114  ELEMENTS    OF    LITERARY    CRITICISM 

rificed,  but  Kent  and  the  King  of  France  and 
Edgar  are  victorious  and  ready  to  sustain  the 
civil  order.  In  each  case  the  tragedy  is  an  inter- 
ruption in  the  moral  order  of  the  world.  Now, 
it  is  true  that  in  history  the  recovery  is  not  so 
rapid.  The  effects  of  a  course  of  crime  last 
through  many  years  before  they  are  worn  out. 
Nevertheless,  there  is  a  slow  amelioration.  The 
successful  criminal  is  often  prosperous,  and  dies 
full  of  years  and  honors  and  is  buried  'neath  a 
"star-ypointing  pyramid."  The  consequences 
of  his  crimes  against  society  are  not  reversed,  pos- 
sibly, for  several  generations.  But  in  the  end 
these  consequences  melt  into  the  stream  of  events, 
the  tide  is  overflooded  by  the  great  secular  cur- 
rents. In  the  mimic  presentation  of  life  called 
the  drama,  there  is  no  space  to  overlook  centu- 
ries. But  so  profound  was  Shakespeare's  convic- 
tion of  the  tendency  of  this  great  law,  that,  in 
the  interest  of  philosophic  truth  and  regardless 
of  artistic  effect,  he  can  never  refrain  from  giv- 
ing a  hint  of  the  world's  recuperative  powers  in- 
stead of  dropping  his  curtain  on  a  scene  of  hope- 
less gloom  and  discouragement.  This  instinct  is 
based  on  a  profound  philosophical  conception  and 
is  in  harmony  with  the  "  law  within  the  law." 

To  pass  to  writers  who  deal  with  lesser  matters, 
we  may  notice  that  a  common  fault  is  to  repre- 
sent the  little  section  of  life  and  the  little  group 
of  persons  presented  by  the  novelist  as  the  en- 


THE    writer's    philosophy  II5 

tire  world,  and  the  motives  which  govern  them 
as  the  mainsprings  of  society.  Thus  Zola's  La 
Tcrrc  and  L Assommoir  represent  a  group  as  gov- 
erned entirely  by  sordid  and  selfish  motives.  No 
one  who  has  come  into  contact  with  any  members 
of  the  debased  and  criminal  class  can  doubt  that 
there  are  such  groups.  No  one  can  read  these 
books  without  acknowledging  their  power  —  a 
power  heightened,  perhaps,  by  the  fact  that  they 
are  unrelieved — that  it  is  one  abnormal  develop- 
ment of  life  that  is  presented.  But  if  a  treatise 
on  physiology  should  describe  tumors,  cancers, 
and  abscesses,  ignoring  the  organs  of  a  healthy 
body  entirely,  it  would  be  at  the  least  inadequate, 
no  matter  how  accurately  it  might  report  minute 
observation  and  delicate  experiment.  So  a  trea- 
tise on  social  disease  is  inadequate  which  fails  to 
take  into  account  the  recuperative  powers  of  so- 
ciety, which  ignores  the  fact  that  crime  and  self- 
ishness, like  disease,  are  destructive  and  end  in 
death  to  the  individual,  but  only  temporary  de- 
terioration to  society.  This  inadequate  repre- 
sentation of  human  life  proceeds  from  the  lack 
of  a  sane  philosophy  in  the  writer.  It  makes  a 
book  gloomy,  unsatisfactory,  pessimistic,  pagan, 
even  though  its  literary  power  be  of  a  high  order. 
In  shorter  productions,  like  the  lyric  for  example 
— which  presents  a  mood  or  a  single  incident,  and 
is  professedly  dominated  by  a  temporary  emotion 
— this  one-sidedness  is  no  fault,  but  in  a  book  there 


Il6  ELEMENTS    OF    LITERARY    CRITICISM 

must  be  some  grasp  of  things  as  they  are,  of  the 
principles  which,  though  they  work  slowly,  work 
ceaselessly.  Events  and  characters  must  be  shown 
in  relation  to  the  great  whole  as  well  as  in  rela- 
tion to  their  immediate  surroundings.  Not  that 
there  should  be  a  constant  moralizing  or  expres- 
sions of  disgust  on  the  part  of  the  author.  On 
the  contrary,  he  should  attend  to  the  matter  in 
hand  and  "  report  fact."  But  when  the  principal 
fact  which  he  reports  in  describing  the  broad 
path  that  leads  to  destruction  is  that  there  is  ab- 
solutely no  other  path  for  men  to  travel  over,  we 
say  that  an  untrue  philosophy  has  marred  his 
work.  And  the  more  lifelike  his  work  is  in 
other  respects — in  matters  of  detail — the  more 
will  this  great  defect  be  felt. 

Young  men  are  apt  to  generalize  hastily  from 
too  few  observations.  If  they  have  real  power 
they  fill  out  these  early  generalizations  and  pass 
to  a  broader  view  of  life.  Years  bring  the  philo- 
sophic mind.  There  is  not  wanting  evidence  in 
his  great  work,  TJie  Doivnfall — evidence  that  M. 
Zola  is  able  to  profit  by  his  graduate  course  in 
life.  The  book  is  a  great  object-lesson  on  the 
truth  that  institutions  which  have  not  developed 
under  the  natural  workings  of  the  true  social  in- 
stincts of  a  nation,  but  are  based  on  individual 
selfishness  and  the  ignorance  and  vainglory  of  the 
people,  drift  steadily  towards  a  catastrophe,  and 
that  the  impulse  of  temporary  self-preservation 


THE    WRITER'S    PHILOSOPHY  II7 

impels  the  officials  under  such  mock  institutions 
to  actions  which  hasten  the  catastrophe.  The 
mammon  of  unrighteousness  nev^er  deserts  its 
friends,  however  much  they  would  like  to  get  rid 
of  its  fatal  attendance.  The  drift  of  events  in 
this  book  is  shown  to  be  determined  by  the  radi- 
cal unsoundness  of  the  official  society  of  the  Sec- 
ond Empire,  that  resulted  of  necessity  in  the  de- 
feat and  ruin  of  that  society  ;  but  France  is  seen 
to  possess  elements  entirely  unaffected  by  the 
rottenness  of  the  imperial  court.  The  evil  incu- 
bus is  mortal,  the  nation  immortal.  Not  only  is 
the  incubus  mortal,  but  the  fact  that  it  is  evil  is 
the  secret  of  its  mortality.  It  is  impossible  for  a 
Frenchman  to  despair  of  France,  and  this  impos- 
sibility rests  on  one  of  those  unreasoning  senti- 
ments at  which  men  who  are  superior  to  emotion 
smile.  But  it  makes  France,  and  M.  Zola's  par- 
ticipation in  it  elevates  his  work  as  literature. 
This  emotion  has  elements  in  its  practical  work- 
ing of  vainglory  and  unreality,  but  in  its  broader 
application  it  is  an  unselfish  feeling  based  on  those 
elemental  qualities  of  human  nature  which  make 
it  necessary  for  men  to  be  grouped  in  communi- 
ties. It  is  therefore  one  of  the  universal  princi- 
ples which  make  human  civilization  and  progress 
possible.  Zola's  sympathy  with  it  gives  this  book 
earnestness,  seriousness,  and  in  many  passages  an 
elevation  worthy  of  his  theme. 

The  work  of  the  poet  Byron  is  marred  by  im- 


Il8  ELEMENTS    OF    LITERARY    CRITICISM 

perfect  understanding  of  humanity.  Mr.  Swin- 
burne may  criticise  his  verbal  workmanship,  but 
Byron  will  still  remain  a  great  artist,  inclining, 
perhaps,  a  little  too  much  to  rhetorical  force  at 
the  expense  of  poetico-musical  form.  His  afflu- 
ence must  be  held  to  compensate  for  his  lack  of 
finish.  Byron's  lack  of  philosophical  insight  and 
of  sane  judgment  is  balanced  by  great  penetra- 
tion and  scope  in  some  particular  directions.  His 
attitude  towards  nature  is  marked  by  sympathy 
with  all  that  is  lonely,  self-contained,  and  vast. 
He  shares  this  susceptibility  with  Wordsworth 
and  Coleridge  and  Shelley.  It  was  a  new  fashion 
to  find  in  the  ocean,  the  deserts,  the  mountains, 
something  that  appealed  to  the  human  mind ; 
but  Byron  puts  this  sentiment  in  the  most  vigor- 
ous and  emphatic  verse.  To  see  in  the  waste 
places,  not  something  hostile  to  man,  but  a  part 
of  the  great  whole,  to  feel  at  home  with  the  uni- 
versal mother  in  her  retirement,  is  the  poet's 
privilege.  He  sees  with  joy  the  majestic  form 
behind  the  repellent  disguise.  In  this  emotional 
excitement  Byron  is  dominated  by  one  of  the 
great  sentiments  of  humanity  which  was  called 
into  consciousness  by  the  poets  of  the  first  quar- 
ter of  this  century.  But  in  his  attitude  towards 
humanity  Byron  lacked  the  universal  element. 
Allowance  must  be  made  for  a  certain  petulance 
of  disposition,  which  sometimes  impelled  him  to 
say  what  he  did  not  really  mean,  and  to  the  irri- 


THE    WRITER'S    PHILOSOPHY  TI9 

tating  nature  of  his  social  surroundings,  which  he 
had  not  the  native  independence  to  disregard  en- 
tirely, as  Shelley  did.  But  there  was  a  central 
core  of  selfishness  in  Byron  which  rendered  it 
impossible  for  him  ever  to  hold  just,  broad,  and 
noble  views  of  his  fellow-men.  A  great  many 
real  things  seemed  to  him  illusions.  Some  illu- 
sions seemed  very  real.  His  conception  of  woman 
is  very  low.  In  his  view  maternal  love  is  not  ele- 
vated above  the  animal  stage  from  which  it  had 
developed.  A  woman  fights  for  her  child  as  a 
panther  might  for  her  cub.  Defiance  and  rebel- 
lion are  the  highest  virtues  of  man.  The  social 
order  he  regards  from  the  stand  -  point  of  an 
anarchist,  yet  he  had  not  the  sincerity  of  con- 
viction that  would  compel  him  to  disdain  the 
social  considerations  his  adventitious  position 
gave  him.  He  has  a  feeling  of  reverence  for  the 
great  men  and  the  great  historical  monuments 
of  the  past,  but  failed  to  appreciate  the  organic 
connection  between  the  past  and  present.  At 
the  same  time  he  feels  the  true  poet's  indigna- 
tion against  injustice.  He  sacrificed  his  life  and 
fortune  in  the  struggle  for  the  independence  of 
Greece.  His  motto  was  noblesse  oblige,  but  it  was 
the  artificial  noblesse  of  caste,  not  the  real  noblesse 
of  humanity,  that  he  tried  to  live  up  to.  Thus  did 
an  imperfect  philosophy  of  life  rob  Byron's  poetry 
of  lasting  dignity  and  essential  worth.  It  remains 
glittering  fragments,  not  a  solid  body  compacted 


120  ELEMENTS    OF    LITERARY    CRITICISM 

by  just  and  noble  thought.  It  is  a  presentation 
neither  of  the  world  as  it  is  nor  of  the  world  as 
it  ought  to  be,  but  of  the  world  as  it  seemed  to  a 
man  of  limited  insight  and  rooted  prejudices. 

Wordsworth's  philosophy,  though  more  Catho- 
lic than  Byron's,  presents  some  elements  of  nar- 
rowness. It  is  more  than  provincial,  but  it  re- 
mains insular.  His  relation  to  nature  is  conceived 
in  the  mood  of  spiritual  tenderness.  The  trees, 
the  streams,  the  hills,  are  full  of  a  beneficent  life. 
The  storm  has  its  voice  and  the  wind  its  message. 
The  quieter  aspects  of  nature:  the  daffodils  that 

"Stretched   in   never-ending  line. 
Along  the   margin  of  a  bay, 
Ten  thousand  saw  I   at  a  glance. 
Tossing  their  heads  in   sprightly  dance ;" 

the  "  slender  blades  of  grass  "  ;  the  "  coy  prim- 
rose, lovely  flower,"  all  excite  his  "delighted 
spirit,"  with  a  sympathy  like  that  which  Chaucer 
felt  when  he  knelt  down  to  look  at  the  first  daisy 
of  the  spring.  It  is  a  childlike  quality  to  sym- 
pathize with  these  simple,  unobtrusive  exam})les 
of  beauty,  but  the  poet  is  a  child,  a  favorite  child 
of  nature,  he  approaches  her  in  a  mood  of  abso- 
lute sincerity  as  a  child  does  his  mother,  not  ana- 
lyzing and  seeking  to  comprehend,  but  yielding 
to  the  bond  of  long  intimacy  and  vague  recol- 
lections of  the  days  when  earth  nourished  man- 
kind in  its  infancy.    Wordsworth's  feeling  for  nat- 


THE    WRITER'S   PHILOSOPHY  121 

ure  was  of  this  quality,  and  has,  therefore,  the  uni- 
versal element,  part  of  the  heredity  of  humanity. 
His  relation  to  man  has  something  of  the  same 
breadth,  though  obscured  occasionally  by  insular 
prejudice  and  innocent  egotism.    It  is  something 
that  he  insisted  that  people  low  in  intellectual 
culture  were  interesting  and  companionable.  This 
is  not  a  new  principle,  for  Chaucer  and  Shake- 
speare both  knew  that  nobility  of  bearing  or  dig- 
nity of  social  rank  were  not  in  the  least  necessary 
to  make  men  good  subjects  for  the  literary  art. 
Wordsworth  was,  of  course,  wrong  in  assuming 
that  the  diction  of  the  uneducated  was  per  se  a 
poetic  medium,  and  did  not  need  the  same  care 
in  selection  and  arrangement  that  the  diction  of 
every  class  does  before  it  can  be  worked  into  a 
literary  structure.      But  he  recognized  the  uni- 
versal brotherhood  of  man,  the  real  and  rugged 
nature  of  the  qualities  that  the  struggle  for  ex- 
istence close  to  the  ground  develops.     The  natu- 
ralness and  homely  vigor  of  the  folk-dialect  led 
^im  to  over-estimate  its  literary  capabilities.  This 
?.s  at  least  an  error  in  the  direction  of  truth  and 
sincerity,  and  must  be  held  to  constitute  an  error 
in  literary  judgment,  not  proceeding  from  erro- 
neous principle  but  from  erroneous  balancing  of 
correct  principles.    Wordsworth  is  a  poet  through 
mastery  of  form  and   phrase,  but  his  work  has 
added  dignity  and  worth  from  justness  of  sym- 
pathy and  truth  of  principles. 


122  ELEMENTS    OF    LITERARY    CRITICISM 

It  is  very  difficult  to  estimate  the  philosophical 
basis  of  the  poet  Shelley.  In  the  first  place,  he 
is  primarily  a  lyrical  poet,  one  whose  feelings  are 
raised  to  fever  heat  or  sunk  in  dejection  by  the 
character  of  any  fragmentary  portion  of  life  that 
may  for  the  moment  arrest  his  attention.  This 
feeling  he  puts  in  verse  with  the  intensity  of  un- 
compromising youth.  In  the  second  place,  Ave 
know  too  much  about  the  conduct  of  his  life,  and 
from  one  or  two  instances  where  he  acted  impet- 
uously and  without  a  judicious  balancing  of  mo- 
tives we  attribute  to  him  a  lack  of  sane  judgment. 
In  the  light  of  this  prejudice  we  interpret  his 
verse.  In  the  next  place,  he  possessed  a  vigor- 
ous and  preternaturally  active  intellect.  This, 
combined  with  his  intensity  of  feeling,  led  him 
to  jump  at  conclusions  about  man  and  society 
with  a  youthful  enthusiasm  which  further  knowl- 
edge and  experience  might  have  led  him  to  re- 
verse. And  again,  there  is  something  wonder- 
fully attractive  about  him,  as  of  a  being  from 
another  sphere  bewildered  and  indignant  in  this 
absurd  world  of  ours.  His  personality  warps  our 
estimate.  We  ought  to  judge  the  body  of  Shel- 
ley's work  without  the  slightest  reference  to  the 
fact  that  he  deserted  his  wife,  for  the  artist's 
character  does  not  influence  his  work,  with  the 
exception  of  those  hidden  qualities  of  his  mind 
which  led  him  to  portray  life  with  reference  to 
certain  principles.     It  is  the  longer  works  of  the 


THE    writer's    philosophy  1 23 

poet  as  a  rule  that  are  affected  by  the  philosoph- 
ical bent  of  his  mind,  though  the  temper  of  his 
lyrics  as  a  whole  might  throw  some  light  on  his 
theory  of  life.  But  to  judge  from  either  is,  in 
Shelley's  case,  very  difficult,  because  he  is  excep- 
tional. In  Queen  Mab  he  exalts  "necessity" — 
the  rigid  link  between  cause  and  effect  —  the 
blind,  compelling  action  of  law— as  the  moving 
force  in  history,  "necessity,  all  supporting  power, 
mother  of  the  world."  But  this  was  written  when 
he  was  eighteen,  and  even  here  he  says,  "  The 
eternal  world  contains  the  evil  and  the  cure," 
and  declares  that  the  distant  millennium  may  see 
the  melioration  of  man.  In  Laon  and  Cythna  he 
makes  plain  his  belief  that  the  holy  and  unholy, 
though  having  apparently  equal  influence  in  the 
practical  direction  of  affairs,  are  not  to  be  ranked 
as  equal  forces  in  the  moral  order.  The  conflict 
between  the  serpent  and  the  eagle  is  continuous. 
Good  and  evil  are  both  eternal  principles  : 

"Twin  Genii — equal  gods;   when  life  and  thought 
Sprang    forth,   they    burst    the    womb    of    inessential 
naught." 

But  good  is  to  prevail  ;  already — 

"The  victor  Fiend, 
Omnipotent  of  yore,  now  quails,  and  fears 
His  triumph  dearly  won,  which  soon  will  lend 
An  impulse  swift  and  sure  to  his  approaching  end." 


124  ELEMENTS    OF    LITERARY    CRITICISM 

It  is  characteristic  of  Shelley's  disregard  of  the 
ordinary  conventions  that  he  personifies  evil  in 
the  soaring  eagle,  and  good  in  the  creeping  ser- 
pent. 

It  is  impossible  to  read  Shelley's  prose,  espe- 
cially the  prefaces  to  his  poems,  without  forming 
a  high  opinion  of  his  fairness  and  breadth  of 
view.  But  when  he  criticises  a  man  or  his  ac- 
tions, his  feelings  get  the  better  of  him.  He 
makes  no  allowances  for  hereditary  prejudices, 
for  the  compound  nature  of  man,  for  the  slow- 
ness of  historical  development.  He  divides  men 
into  two  camps — one  warring  with  the  eagle,  the 
other  with  the  serpent — forgetting  that  all  in- 
dividuals are  on  both  sides  and  the  battle-field  is 
in  the  heart  of  every  one  as  well  as  in  society. 
His  intellectual  limitations  are  sources  of  literary 
weakness  no  less  than  of  errors  in  conduct.  But 
we  can  hardly  wish  him  other  than  he  was,  for 
then  we  should  have  no  Shelley. 

In  this  discussion  we  cannot  refer  for  illustra- 
tion to  philosophical  writers  like  Emerson  or 
Bacon.  When  thought  is  definitely  philosophical 
and  put  in  literary  form  it  illustrates  the  counter- 
proposition  that  literary  form  adds  immensely  to 
the  value  of  noble  thought.  Bacon  is  usually  ad- 
duced as  an  example  of  the  fact  that  the  philo- 
sophical views  which  control  the  pen  have  not 
always  equal  supremacy  in  the  conduct  of  life, 
that  men  make  a  definite,  practical  distinction  in 


THE    WRITERS    PHILOSOPHY  1 25 

their  minds  between  the  world  as  it  is  and  the 
world  as  it  ought  to  be,  and  this  without  any 
conscious  self-deception.  Nor  can  we  draw  much 
from  artistic  work  of  the  quality  of  Hawthorne's. 
His  world  is  too  limited  to  illustrate  the  value  of 
general  principles.  The  baffling  immanence  of 
the  spiritual  and  the  symbolism  of  nature  are  fan- 
ciful ideas.  His  young  girls  are  charming  exam- 
ples of  purity,  and  yet  of  a  negative  character. 
The  Scarlet  Lctta-  derives  its  excellence  from  its 
beauty  as  a  romance.  It  is  far  removed  from 
reality.  The  principles  it  illustrates  are  fidelity 
to  duty  and  the  inevitableness  of  moral  retribu- 
tion, the  meagre  and  mechanical  creed  of  the 
Puritan.  A  representation  of  life  from  such  a 
stand-point  must  be  of  limited  and  temporary 
interpretation.  Hawthorne's  pictures  are  beau- 
tiful, his  ideal  of  duty  is  righteous,  and  his  in- 
sight into  the  heart  is  profound.  Still,  there  are 
so  many  powerful  though  commonplace  motives 
of  human  action  in  which  he  takes  little  interest 
that  it  can  hardly  be  said  that  his  writings  illus- 
trate a  philosophy  of  life. 

Longfellow  is  actuated  by  a  simple  set  of  max- 
ims which  would  serve  very  well  for  the  conduct 
of  a  sheltered  life,  but  are  an  insufficient  outfit 
for  a  poet  who  seeks  to  do  more  than  to  influence 
his  contemporaries.  Grace  of  form  will  not  give 
verse  life  unless  the  thought  is  deeper  than  that 
of  the  established  faith — unless,  indeed,  the  grace 


126  ELEMENTS    OF    LITERARY    CRITICISM 

be  that  rare  beauty  of  lyric  form  which  conquers 
oblivion.  Whittier,  perhaps  less  graceful  than 
Longfellow,  will  influence  men  longer,  for  his 
content  of  thought  is  more  weighty,  and  the 
emotions  called  out  by  a  great  struggle  of  prin- 
ciple pulsate  in  his  verse.  He  was  of  a  party 
that  met  opprobrium  for  their  convictions,  and 
in  whom  the  convictions  were  deepened  by  the 
opprobrium  they  received.  It  turned  out  that 
they  were  right.  Perhaps  no  one  of  them  was 
actuated  by  such  sincere  devotion  to  abstract 
moral  law  as  Whittier.  By  his  pervading  and 
profound  conviction  of  the  malign  character  of 
the  injustice  embodied  in  slavery,  Whittier  is 
lifted  above  the  poets  who  sing  for  the  gratifi- 
cation of  the  artistic  sense  of  their  contempora- 
ries into  the  ranks  of  the  poets  whose  thought 
elevates  humanity.  His  world,  as  he  sees  it,  is 
not  a  very  bountiful  nor  beautiful  one.  There 
is  a  touch  of  the  commonplace  about  it.  But 
his  world  as  it  ought  to  be  is  profoundly  moral — 
a  world  in  which  the  law  of  love  is  as  unchanging 
as  the  law  of  righteousness. 

Rossetti  is  a  poet  whose  work  illustrates  how 
essential  breadth  of  view  and  philosophical  com- 
prehension of  the  world  are  to  the  highest  literary 
worth.  Here  is  an  artist  in  words  whose  strict- 
ly artistic  gifts  have  rarely  been  equalled.  His 
ballads,  notably  the  Bride's  Prelude  and  Rosemary, 
show  him    master   of   a   weird,   haunting  verbal 


THE    writer's    philosophy  1 27 

music.  His  sonnets  show  a  phrasal  power  of 
weight  and  noble  simplicity.  His  imagination 
pictures  things  in  the  concrete.  He  sees  the 
scenes  in  the  magic  globe  as  distinctly  as  the 
girl  who  gazed  into  its  cloudy  depths.  His  con- 
ception of  love  as  a  spiritual  energy  transfused 
through  the  earthly  passion,  and,  giving  it  eleva- 
tion and  immortality,  shows  that  he  comprehend- 
ed, instinctively,  at  least,  one  great  principle.  But 
what  shall  we  say  of  a  man  who  believes  that  the 
world  of  Dante's  day  is  preferable  to  the  world  of 
to-day,  who  has  apparently  never  heard  of  the  dis- 
covery of  the  conservation  of  energy  nor  of  the 
main  outlines  of  evolution,  and  who  thinks  the 
form  of  a  chair  or  the  pattern  of  a  brocade  more 
important  and  interesting  than  the  struggle  of 
humanity  towards  higher  things.  His  world,  as 
it  ought  to  be,  is  simply  a  beautiful  world,  beau- 
tiful in  form  and  color  and  old  association,  but 
without  the  life  of  conflict.  It  is  a  picturesque 
rather  than  a  beautiful  world  which  is  the  ideal 
to  which  he  refers  for  commentary  on  the  world 
around  him.  How  different  are  Tennyson  and 
Browning  in  this  regard.  Tennyson  writes  of 
the 

"  Far-off,  divine  event, 
Towards  which  the  whole  creation  moves." 

The  wind  from  the  great  battle  blows  through 
Browning's  soul,  and   he   calls   to   men   with   a 


128  ELEMENTS    OF    LITERARY    CRITICISM 

hearty  cheer  and  reports  what  obstacles  the  ad- 
vance guard  has  met,  with  a  hearty  faith  that  the 
broken  line  will  be  reformed  and  some  ground 
permanently  won  for  the  rank  and  file.  The 
partial  view  taken  by  Rossetti  seems  unmanly 
and  inadequate  after  Ave  have  been  shown  a 
broader,  wider  view  of  life.  We  see  that  the 
real  meaning  of  the  great  drama  has  been  over- 
looked by  him,  and  lose  respect  and  admiration 
for  a  guide  who  takes  us  into  a  corner  behind  the 
scenes  to  moralize  over  old  costumes  and  rusty 
armor. 

Even  in  The  Burden  of  Nineveh,  when  the  con- 
trast between  the  ancient  world  and  the  modern 
is  so  thrust  upon  him  that  he  cannot  avoid  refer- 
ring to  it,  we  find  no  hint  of  progress  or  develop- 
ment. In  fact,  Rossetti  does  not  believe  in  mod- 
ern civilization  any  more  than  an  ultramontane 
ecclesiastic  does.  Of  course  he  is  right  in  not 
falling  into  the  vulgar  error  of  glorifying  material 
and  mechanical  gains.  Such  progress  is  evident 
enough,  and  by  itself  is  worthless  enough.  But 
surely  civilization  and  Christianity  mean  some- 
thing— perhaps  not  one  hundredth  part  of  what 
they  should  mean  —  and  London  is  something 
more  than  a  modern  Nineveh.  After  a  series  of 
beautiful  picturesque  imaginings,  such  as  only 
Rossetti  could  write,  about  the  past  from  which 
the  winged  bull  he  has  seen  hoisted  into  the 
British  Museum  has  come,  he  sums  up  with  the 


THE    WRITER'S    PHILOSOPHY  I  29 

reflection  that,  after  all,  the  God  of  Nineveh 
might  well  be  the  God  of  London.  Imagining 
some  race  of  the  future  finding  the  image  buried 
in  the  ruins  of  London,  and  thinking  that  the 
men  who  had  lived  there  once  worshipped  it,  he 
closes  : 

"The  smile  rose  first — anon  drew  nigh 
The  thought :  those  heavy  wings  spread  high, 
So  sure  of  flight,  which  do  not  fly; 
That  set  gaze,  never  on  the  sky ; 

Those  scriptured  flanks  it  cannot  see; 
Its  crown,  a  brow-contracting  load  ; 
Its  planted  feet  which  trust  the  sod 
(So  grew  the  image  as  I  trod): 
O  Nineveh,  was  this  thy  God — 

Thine  (ours?)  also,  mighty  Nineveh?" 

We  are  charmed  by  Rossetti's  verse,  but  the 
burden,  the  message,  is  of  slight  import.  Formal 
beauty  is  not  everything.  The  poet  must  have 
mental  scope  as  well  as  poetic  vision.  He  must 
be  instinctively  sound  and  right  in  many  matters 
in  which  it  is  conventional  to  be  wrong.  He  must 
have  a  rooted  faith  in  the  moral  order.  He  must 
*  believe  in  immortality  if  he  himself  would  be 
immortal."  Otherwise  he  belongs  to  the  second 
class,  no  matter  how  perfect  his  execution. 

It  is  not  infrequently  said  that  poetry  should 
have  no  distinctly  moral  aim,  that  to  be  didactic 
is  essentially  inartistic,  that  art  should  appeal  to 
9 


130  EI.EMENTS    OF    LITERARY    CRITICISM 

the  feelings,  especially  to  the  higher  emotions, 
but  should  not  "express  thoughts  or  principles." 
Doubtless  this  is  very  true  if  by  "  moral "  is  meant 
the  practical  ordering  of  conduct  in  harmony 
with  a  certain  set  of  laws  established  by  a  certain 
set  of  people,  and  by  "didactic"  the  teaching 
and  repetition  of  these  laws  as  if  they  were  of 
universal  validity  ;  for  then,  of  course,  moral  and 
didactic  are  the  same  as  sectarian  and  dogmatic. 
But  moral  has  a  higher  sense  than  simply  the 
religious.  It  covers  the  ethical,  or  that  which  the 
universal  sense  of  mankind  recognizes  as  the 
ground  in  which  the  fundamental  distinction 
between  right  and  wrong  rests.  In  this  sense 
morality  must  be  part  of  the  content  of  a  great 
literary  work,  which  apparently  appeals  only  to 
the  emotions.  As  Mr.  Sheldon  said,  before  the 
Ethical  Society  of  St.  Louis  : 

"It  is  not  uncommon  that  an  individual  soul  in  a 
great  emotional  crisis,  when  giving  utterance  to  his  feel- 
ings, should,  in  a  sudden  outburst,  let  those  emotions 
crystallize  in  some  one  great  universal  thought  or  prin- 
ciple. This  would  not  be  moralizing.  It  would  only  be 
a  spasmodic  illumination  of  the  feelings,  as  the  intellect 
in  one  wide  grasp  appreciates  the  true  meaning  and 
significance  of  the  crisis.  Great  trial,  sudden  calamity, 
will  now  and  then  have  the  effect  of  making  the  indi- 
vidual suddenly  look  deep  into  philosophy.  We  not 
only  feel  deeply,  but  we  think  intensely  in  such  emer- 
gencies.    It  is  in  this  way  we  are  to  explain  the  occa- 


THE    writer's    philosophy  131 

sional    profound   thoughts   that   are   expressed  by   the 
characters  of  the  dramas  of  Shakespeare  and  Goethe." 

In  periods  of  great  excitement  the  primary  in- 
tuitions of  the  intellect  may  come  to  the  surface. 
The  artist  of  insight  appreciates  this.  This  is  il- 
lustrated by  Sophocles  in  the  Antigone  when  the 
heroine  appeals  to  our  intuition  of  the  "  un- 
written laws  that  know  no  change."    She  says  : 

"  It  was  not  Zeus  who  gave  them  forth, 
Nor  Justice  dwelling  with  the  Gods  below. 
Who  traced  these  laws  for  all  the  sons  of  men. 
Nor  do  I  deem  thy  edicts  strong  enough 
That  thou,  a  mortal  man,  should 'st  overpass 
The  unwritten  laws  of  God  that  know  no  change; 
They  are  not  of  to-day  nor  yesterday. 
But  live  forever,  nor  can  man  assign 
When  first  they  sprang  to  being.     Not  through  fear 
Of  any  man's  resolve  was  I  prepared 
Before  the  Gods  to  bear  the  penalty 
Of  sinning  against  these." 

We  all — at  least,  all  who  have  in  any  full  sense  ex- 
perienced life — know  how  sorrow,  mortal  danger, 
imminent  death,  may  widen  the  mortal  horizon 
and  throw  all  things  into  new  and  unexpected  re- 
lations, so  that  we  see  a  new  world  and  a  strange 
sky,  and  are  conscious  of  the  eternal,  spiritual 
forces  and  appreciate  the  temporary  and  unsatis- 
factory character  of  the  world  which  seemed  so 


132  ELEMENTS    OF    LITERARY    CRITICISM 

fair.  We  find  an  unexpected  reserve  of  strength 
in  ourseU^es.  The  eternal  verities  loom  vaguely 
in  the  background,  and  we  feel,  in  "  a  moment  of 
utter  sincerity,"  what  reality  is.  It  is  the  highest 
task  of  the  poet  to  imagine  and  reproduce  these 
experiences  truthfully,  and  in  doing  so  he  is 
governed  by  a  philosophy  deeper  than  that  of  the 
schools. 

Of  course,  we  have  artists  who  report  solely 
from  experience,  who  have  not  the  audacity  to 
portray  the  soul  of  man  stripped  of  the  trappings 
of  conventionality.  Very  charming  and  instruc- 
tive are  the  artists  of  this  class — "  photographers 
of  the  world  as  it  seems  to  them."  They,  too, 
have  their  philosophy  which  colors  their  report. 
Thackeray  and  Dickens  may  be  taken  as  types  of 
this  class.  Thackeray  satirizes  shams,  quackery, 
snobbishness,  with  relentless  vigor.  His  ideal  is 
the  English  gentleman  of  his  period  :  brave,  clean, 
well-dressed,  slightly  stupid,  truth-telling — a  unit 
in  the  great  fabric  of  English  society.  An  in- 
come of  a  certain  amount  is  an  absolute  necessity. 
Non-conformity  to  a  certain  standard  is  treated 
as  out  of  the  question.  When  Philip  Firmin  and 
Clive  Newcome  are  poor  and  married,  their  cases 
are  regarded  as  absolutely  helpless.  Some  money 
must  be  procured  for  them  to  avoid  the  tragedy 
of  poverty.  It  is  procured  in  one  case  by  the 
cheap  device  of  finding  a  lost  will,  and  in  the 
other  by  a  second  marriage.    No  doubt  it  is  hard 


THE   WRITER'S    PHILOSOPHY  I33 

for  a  young  man  to  descend  in  the  social  scale 
and  work  for  a  scanty  living.  Probably  it  is 
harder  in  England  than  it  is  here,  but  it  is  not 
impossible.  Men  have  to  do  it.  They  do  it  every 
day.  But  that  Clive  should  brace  himself  to 
meet  such  a  horrible  fate  is  impossible.  He  has 
not  the  manly  heart  to  look  destiny  in  the  eye. 
He  would  fail.  Habits,  mode  of  life,  associations 
are  too  strong  for  him.  Thackeray  feels  that  to 
lose  social  caste  is  a  degradation  no  gentleman 
should  be  subjected  to.  He  does  not  draw  the 
character  that  can  rise  superior  to  such  misfort- 
une, apparently  because  he  thinks  that  no  chai  - 
acter  could  be  strong  enough  to  triumph  over  it. 
He  thinks  the  misfortune  greater  than  it  really 
is.  His  portrait  is  true  to  the  types  one  ordi- 
narily meets  in  society,  but  false  to  the  normal 
man.  If  his  realism  was  faithfully  followed  out 
he  would  show  us  the  tragedy  of  the  weak  man 
overwhelmed  by  petty  disaster,  and  not  rescue 
him  by  some  outside  help.  He  likes  Clive  and 
Philip  too  much  —  they  are  very  attractive  fel- 
lows— to  subject  them  fairly  and  squarely  to  the 
buffets  of  the  world.  In  ethical  conduct  Vanity 
Fair  rises  above  The  Newcomes,  for  selfishness 
results  in  disaster,  though  here,  too,  it  may  be  re- 
marked that  in  real  life  so  able  a  woman  as  Becky 
Sharp  would  never  have  failed  as  Becky  Sharp 
did.  Her  real  retribution  would  have  been  a 
brilliant  and  permanent  worldly  success  coupled 


134  ELEMENTS   OF   LITERARY   CRITICISM 

with  the  detestation  of  some  one  she  really  loved, 
or  the  satiety  and  weariness  that  comes  to  those 
who  despise  mankind  because  they  know  them- 
selves too  well  and  have  attained  their  end. 

In  Barry  Lyndon  the  workings  of  the  ethical 
laws  are  more  radically  followed  out.  In  that 
powerful  sketch  we  have  a  character  absolutely 
selfish  in  a  body  physically  perfect.  It  is  there- 
fore invested  with  an  enormous  but  unstable 
power.  The  harm  it  does,  its  absolute  indiffer- 
ence to  others,  its  failure  when  it  comes  into 
collision  with  the  firm  will  of  an  upright  and  fear- 
less man,  its  gradual  sinking  as  bodily  vigor  les- 
sens, the  terror  it  inspires,  not  unmixed  with 
fascination,  in  weaker  wills,  and  its  final  defeat 
by  the  forces  of  society  are  true  delineations  of 
the  interactions  of  good  and  evil.  The  writer 
felt  the  irresistible  action  of  the  moral  laws,  and 
he  does  not  preach  but  lets  things  drift  in  the 
direction  which  his  instinct  told  him  they  must 
inevitably  follow.  As  the  scene  is  laid  in  the 
eighteenth  century,  his  imagination  rather  than 
his  observation  is  at  work,  therefore  he  attains  a 
higher  truth  than  in  his  novels  of  contemporary 
life.  As  the  hero  has  not  a  single  redeeming 
quality  except  physical  courage,  the  writer's  sym- 
pathy does  not  lead  him  to  warp  the  action  from 
the  natural  and  inevitable  course. 

Dickens's  stories  derive  their  interest  from  the 
persistent  presentation  of  amusing  personal  pecu- 


THE    WRITERS    PHILOSOPHY  135 

Harities,  or  rather  eccentricities,  of  manner,  ap- 
pearance, and  speech.  The  author's  high  spirits 
and  enjoyment  of  the  story  carry  us  along  in 
good-natured  sympathy.  His  stories  are  really 
fairy  stories,  although  his  fairies  wear  the  clothes 
and  speak  the  dialect  of  every-day  English  people. 
The  course  of  events  is  unnatural.  Everything 
is  theoretical,  and  all  the  characters  are  posing. 
The  principles  of  ordinary  conventional  morality 
are  inculcated  :  "  be  good  and  you  will  be  re- 
warded"; "be  bad,  and  you  will  be  punished" — 
principles  in  operation  no  doubt  in  a  well  regu- 
lated English  nursery,  but  by  no  means  operative 
in  the  world  in  the  sense  the  writer  assumes.  In 
the  real  Canterbury,  Uriah  Heep  would  become 
a  successful  man  of  business,  and  in  the  real 
London  a  wealthy  banker  like  Ralph  Nickleby 
would  not  hang  himself  on  account  of  some  tri- 
fling reverses,  nor  because  he  discovered  that  his 
son  whom  he  thought  dead  was  alive.  We  must 
give  Dickens  credit  for  appreciating  the  human 
nature  of  the  poor,  and  giving  us  powerful  frag- 
mentary sketches  of  their  trials  and  struggles, 
for  the  ability  to  arouse  our  feelings,  even  when 
we  know  the  means  are  illegitimate,  but  we  must 
say  that  his  world  is  a  make-believe  world,  and 
an  air  of  insincerity  characterized  his  manner  of 
presenting  it.  In  fact,  he  knows  little  of  the 
real,  serious  world  of  aspiration  and  defeat.  He 
was  successful  too  early  and  too  easily  to  compass 


136  ELEMENTS    OF    LITERARY    CRITICISM 

the  meaning  of  life.  His  work  can  never  take  a 
strong  hold  of  future  generations,  and  he  lacked 
the  philosophical  insight  which  understands  with- 
out experience  and  interprets  by  the  imagina- 
tion. 

Dickens  was  an  artist  ;  this  gave  his  work 
vogue.  Dickens  lacked  some  of  the  artistic 
powers ;  this  renders  his  future  uncertain. 
Whether  the  balance  between  his  powers  and 
his  weaknesses  is  such  as  to  relegate  him  to 
obscurity  after  the  generation  who  remember 
him  as  the  delight  of  their  youthful  days  has 
passed  away,  no  one  would  dare  to  decide.  But 
if  he  does  take  his  place  among  the  temporary 
authors  who  have  no  message  for  future  genera- 
tions, we  may  be  sure  that  his  lack  of  a  broad, 
sane  view  of  human  society  is  one  of  the  reasons 
why  he  enters  the  great  company  of  the  unread. 
It  is  the  appeal  to  universal  human  nature  which 
is  answered  by  posterity.  Contemporaries  award 
the  laurel,  but  it  soon  withers  unless  renewed. 

However,  fundamental  soundness  of  view  is 
only  one  of  the  qualities  of  great  literature.  Per- 
fection of  form — the  nameless  charm  of  style — 
will  alone  insure  immortality,  as  will  a  certain 
unanalyzable  compound  of  artistic  excellence. 
Hawthorne  we  know  will  live.  Thackeray,  we 
believe,  will  live,  perhaps  not  so  assured  a  life. 
It  does  seem  as  if  Pickwick  and  Weller  and  Mi- 
cawber  were  good  risks  for  one  hundred  years ; 


THE    WRITER  S    PHILOSOPHY  137 

but  we  do  not  know.  They  have  a  good  deal  of 
vitality,  and  will  certainly  survive  as  long  as  we 
who  knew  them  in  their  youth  are  on  the  stage. 
They  would  have  more  vigor  had  their  creator 
lived  in  a  broader,  truer  world  ;  had  his  concep- 
tion of  life  been  more  philoso[)hical  and  just  ;  had 
his  love  been  less  sentimental  and  his  pathos  less 
theatrical,  his  likes  and  dislikes  more  profound 
and  impersonal.  Most  books  float  a  short  time, 
then  become  waterlogged,  then  sink  with  all  their 
crew.  The  critics  cannot  scuttle  them,  though 
they  sometimes  try.  They  usually  keep  them 
afloat  for  a  period  by  some  air-blown  bladders. 
If  the  specific  gravity  of  a  book  is  greater  than 
that  of  the  waters  of  oblivion,  the  wordy  lauda- 
tion of  the  entire  guild  will  not  prevent  it  from 
thinking  before  many  years.  So  we  must  say  to 
our  old  friends  on  board  the  good  bark  David 
Coppcrficld,  and  the  trim  little  schooner  The 
Cricket  on  the  Hearth,  which  have  floated  so 
proudly  out  of  the  harbor,  "  Your  voyage  de- 
pends on  yourselves  and  your  craft.  If  you  are 
booked  to  founder,  we  cannot  save  you,  but  we 
hope  that  in  time  you  may  anchor  safely  in  Port 
Classic,  moored  alongside  of  that  quaint  Spanish 
galleon,  Do)i  Quixote,  and  the  old-fashioned  Eng- 
lish brigs  Tom  Jones  a-nd  Tristram  Shattdj.  But 
your  hull  must  be  as  sound  and  well-fashioned  as 
theirs  if  you  are  ever  to  reach  the  port." 

The  theory  of  the  realist  is  that  art  consists  in 


138  ELEMENTS    OF    LITERARY    CRITICISM 

representing  with  minute  accuracy  the  world  as 
it  appears  without  any  reference  to  the  world 
as  it  ought  to  be.  But  whatever  the  method  of 
the  artist,  realistic  or  romantic,  his  Avork  lacks 
strength  if  he  fails  in  a  just  appreciation  of  the 
relative  worth  of  the  forces  which  govern  men  as 
individuals  and  as  members  of  society.  No  one 
has  ever  painted  a  minute  section  of  the  world  as 
it  seems  more  carefully  and  neatly  than  Henry 
James.  He  ignores  many  of  the  springs  of  human 
action  entirely,  or  regards  them  as  subordinate  to 
the  more  complex  ones  that  appear  in  the  culti- 
vated class  of  a  highly  civilized  community.  He 
confines  his  character  group  to  people  who  may 
be  supposed  to  be  actuated  by  social  ambitions 
of  the  more  refined  and  delicate  kind.  Conse- 
quently they  act  as  if  there  were  not  sufficient 
motive  power  to  keep  them  going,  or  as  if  they 
were  all  doubtful  whether  their  objects  were 
really  worth  vigorous  and  sustained  effort.  It 
is  true  that  we  sometimes  see  exactly  such  peo- 
ple. We  see  cases  where  a  train  of  events  fails 
to  develop  and  causes  become  abortive  because 
the  agents  are  profoundly  indifferent  or  lack  the 
energy  which  makes  human  wills  operative.  But 
this  is  not  life — at  least,  not  the  life  which  art 
should  represent — because  some  of  the  great  ele- 
ments of  human  nature  are  in  abeyance.  It  is 
the  negation  of  free  personalities,  and  as  much 
fragmentary   and   exceptional    as   the   world  of 


THE    WRITER  S    PHILOSOPHY  I39 

Zola's  Assommoir,  though  very  much  more  agree- 
able. It  may  be  well  to  have  it  represented  once, 
and  then  the  artist  should  hasten  to  go  on  to 
something  wider. 

In  the  American  we  have  the  admirable  por- 
trait of  the  strong,  clean,  clear-headed  young 
American,  Newman,  brought  into  contact  with  a 
group  of  the  old  French  aristocracy.  He  falls 
in  love  with  Madame  de  Cintr^,  a  charming,  re- 
fined, pure,  young  Frenchwoman  of  strong  and 
thoroughly  dignified  nature.  Although  exactly 
opposite  to  him  in  the  qualities  that  come  from 
home  association  she  comes  to  love  him  sincerely, 
and  they  are  engaged  to  be  married.  Newman's 
strong  character  and  positive  ways,  and  supreme 
indillerence  to  the  social  standards  of  the  Haute- 
villes,  becomes  so  distasteful  to  the  heads  of  the 
family  that  they  forbid  the  marriage.  Madame 
de  Cintre  acquiesces  and  retires  to  a  convent. 
After  some  vain  and  futile  efforts  on  the  part 
of  Newman  to  induce  a  change  of  their  deter- 
mination the  story  comes  to  a  stand-still,  leaving 
on  the  reader  a  confused  impression  of  action 
arrested  for  insufficient  causes. 

It  is  hardly  possible  to  see  how  the  collision 
between  regard  for  the  artificial  standard — a  re- 
gard in  this  case  so  deeply  rooted  as  to  be  almost  a 
part  of  human  nature  itself — and  one  of  the  great 
natural  forces,  love,  could  be  presented  more  vig- 
orously and  profoundly.     But  the  book  is  based 


I40  ELEMENTS   OF    LITERARY    CRITICISM 

on  a  philosophical  misconception.  It  undervalues 
human  nature.  For  love  between  characters  of 
the  depth  and  truth  of  Newman  and  Madame  de 
Cintre  is  far  stronger  than  all  the  motives  which 
have  their  bases  in  the  conventional  prejudices  in- 
grafted on  character  by  early  education  or  social 
and  religious  environment.  That  is  the  law,  and 
to  set  it  aside  indicates  an  erroneous  balancing 
in  the  author's  mind  of  the  various  orders  of  mo- 
tives. It  is  true  that  the  social  conventions  do 
frequently  conquer  natural  law.  Women  daily 
submit  to  be  sacrificed,  even  sacrifice  themselves, 
from  such  motives,  but  such  women  as  Madame 
de  Cintre  do  not.  To  conquer  the  attraction  be- 
tween her  and  Newman  by  sentiments  of  filial 
obedience  and  family  pride,  is  like  assuming  that 
a  beautifully  constructed  and  furnished  hous^ 
can  keep  out  death.  A  writer  with  a  profound 
insight  into  human  nature  Avould  have  fdt  in- 
stinctively that  Madame  de  Cintre  must  be  pre- 
sented as  radically  a  shallow  and  easily  influenced 
woman,  like  Ophelia.  She  does  not  make  the  im- 
pression of  being  weak.  The  character  drawing 
is  artistic,  but  the  author  has  not  entered  fully 
into  the  nature  of  woman.  This  philosophical 
error  makes  his  book,  though  graced  with  some  of 
the  rarest  qualities  of  real  literature,  essential- 
ly incomplete  and  irritating.  We  cannot  quite 
understand  why  something  does  not  happen. 
For    these    general    reasons,  and    with    these 


THE    WRITER'S    PHILOSOPHY  141 

limitations,  the  highest  attribute  of  the  poet  is 
thought-power  in  the  broad  sense,  that  which  co- 
ordinates multiform  phenomena  and  refers  them 
to  law.  It  is  this  that  has  given  to  the  poet  the 
name  seer  or  diviner  of  hidden  things.  Among  the 
phenomena  of  this  world  none  is  of  more  import 
or  of  obscurer  foundations  than  the  societies  into 
which  men  are  aggregated.  The  greatest  and 
most  sacred  of  these  is  the  nation.  The  highest 
function  of  the  poet  is  to  be  a  political  thinker, 
not  political  reasoner  on  the  jural  organizations 
of  the  world,  but  one  who  discerns  the  emotional 
forces  that  give  shape  to  the  national  organiza- 
tion and  mould  its  history.  Very  many  poets  are 
attracted  by  the  conceptions  of  earlier  civiliza- 
tions, especially  mediaeval  forms  over  which  time 
has  cast  a  haze  of  romance  and  pathos.  But  they 
are  greater  and  truer  who  are  competent  to  in- 
terpret the  civilization  of  their  own  day,  because 
life  as  it  is,  is  more  than  life  as  it  was.  This 
underlies  much  of  Lowell's  verse  and  gives  his 
Coninienioration  Ode  the  dignity  of  a  national 
document.  It  even  imparts  an  element  of  great- 
ness to  the  formless  waste  of  words  that  lies  on 
the  pages  of  Whitman.  The  poet  of  the  present 
day  must  be  one  in  whose  heart  lies  profoundly 
a  conviction  of  the  sacredness  of  democracy,  even 
if  he  perceives  also  its  limitations  and  its  appar- 
ently unstable  equilibrium.  That  any  modern 
should  do  for  modern   civilization   what   Shake- 


142  ELEMENTS    OF    LITERARY    CRITICISM 

speare  did  for  English  feudal  civilization  in  the 
historical  plays  is  not  to  be  expected,  for  democ- 
racy is  more  difficult  to  understand  than  feudal- 
ism, but  to  dislike  democracy  radically  will  stifle 
and  render  nugatory  the  work  of  future  poets, 
no  matter  how  artistically  delicate  it  may  be. 
Worthy,  serious  work  in  literature  grows  out  of 
sympathy  with  humanity  and  a  perception  of  the 
broad  relations  of  society,  and  is  paralyzed  by 
distrust  of  the  present  and  deification  of  the  past. 


CHAPTER   V 
THE    MUSICAL    POWER 

If  we  should  hear  a  man  reading  poetry  in  a 
foreign  tongue,  of  which  we  were  ignorant,  we 
should  know  at  once  that  he  was  uttering  verse. 
If  he  read  in  the  ordinary  manner,  we  should 
perceive  that  the  succession  of  sounds  was  di- 
vided into  groups  of  about  equal  length,  or,  at 
least,  bearing  a  definite  relation  to  each  other  in 
the  time  required  for  delivery — that  is,  that  it 
was  measured  into  lines.  If  he  read  with  more 
reference  to  the  meaning,  this  characteristic  of 
isochronism  would  be  modified  and  minimized  ; 
but  something  more  complicated  and  pleasing  to 
the  ear  would  be  perceived,  a  rhythm  overlying 
the  mechanical  metre,  a  rise  and  fall  in  cadence, 
and  the  sounds  of  the  words  and  syllables  would 
be  subject  to  a  double  grouping,  not  only  into 
equal  time-units  but  into  a  set  of  unequal  parts, 
which  were  related  to  each  other  in  succession  by 
variations  in  energy,  by  a  contrast,  not  by  similar- 
ity, as  the  lines  are.  This  would  be  about  all  that 
weshould  be  likely  to  perceive — metre  and  rhythm. 


144  ELEMENTS    OF    LITERARY    CRITICISM 

While  this  is  sufficient  to  assure  us  of  what 
we  knew  before — that  verse  is  characterized  by 
sound,  by  simple  musical  elements — we  may  no- 
tice further  that  these  musical  elements  have 
per  se  very  little  value.  It  would  give  us  very 
little  pleasure  to  hear  poetry  of  a  fine  order  read 
in  a  language  we  did  not  comprehend.  It  would 
be  nothing  but  tiresome  to  listen  to  the  best 
Italian  reader  of  Dante  if  we  did  not  understand 
a  word  he  said.  To  singing  in  an  unknown  tongue 
we  can  listen  without  impatience,  but  not  to  read- 
ing. We  must  therefore  admit  that  the  musical 
element  in  verse  is  entirely  a  subordinate  one,  of 
great  power  in  combination,  of  none  whatever  by 
itself.  That  the  musical  element  is  one  of  great 
power  in  combination  with  the  meaning  of  the 
verse  is  evident  from  the  fact  that  all  people  like 
to  hear  verse  they  can  understand  well  read. 
Nor  is  the  musical  element  of  verse  a  subjective 
one  due  to  the  skill  of  the  reciter.  It  belongs  to 
the  verse,  so  that  we  hear  it  in  imagination  when 
we  read  to  ourselves.  The  reader  does  not  create 
it ;  he  discloses  it.  The  power  of  the  musical 
form,  rudimentary  as  it  is  as  music  in  that  com- 
bination of  words  we  call  poetry,  is  evident,  not 
only  from  the  fact  that  it  gives  pleasure,  but  also 
from  the  fact  that  it  adds  so  much  to  the  force  of 
the  words.  It  makes  them  mean  a  great  deal 
more  than  they  do  as  words.  If  the  tale  of  the 
Ancient  Mariner  were  related  in  prose  it  would 


THE    MUSICAL    POWER  1 45 

lose  nearly  all  its  power,  and  what  it  retained 
would  be  radically  different  in  character  and 
effect.  To  translate  a  short  lyric  into  prose  is 
evidently  impossible.  The  music  gone,  the  words 
are  dead.  It  is  not  easy  to  translate  prose,  be- 
cause an  abstract  word  of  one  language  is  rarely 
accurately  represented  in  meaning  by  a  word  in 
another  language  ;  but  it  is  impossible  to  trans- 
late poetry,  because  it  is  impossible  that  a  word 
of  poetic  diction  in  any  language  be  represented 
by  a  different  sound.  At  most,  a  new  poem 
founded  on  the  other  can  be  constructed. 

The  accent  is  the  most  evident  quality  of  Eng- 
lish speech,  although  it  may  not  be  easy  to  ex- 
plain exactly  what  it  is  physically.  In  verse 
almost  any  one  can  detect  a  misplaced  accent. 
It  is  felt  to  spoil  the  line.  Some  syllable  in  a 
word  is  habitually  pronounced  with  a  little  more 
energy  than  any  of  the  others.  Probably  the 
vowel  sound  is  slightly  prolonged,  as  well  as 
strengthened,  and  usually  the  consonant  sounds 
next  to  it  are  joined  to  it,  so  as  to  give  the  ac- 
cented syllable  increased  volume.  By  arranging 
these  accents  at  regulated  intervals  we  "obtain  a 
substructure  on  which  to  base  the  acoustic  edi- 
fice we  call  verse,  for  accent  is  not  the  only 
verse  element,  although  so  important  a  one.  The 
syllables  possess  also  tone  ;  the  vowel  sound  is  a 
note,  and,  with  its  consonant,  possesses  musical 
quality.  It  is  the  arrangement  of  these  in  groups 
10 


146  ELEMENTS    OF    LITERARY    CRITICISM 

and  sequences  that  gives  the  verse  life.  As  far 
as  the  accents  are  concerned,  we  might  compare 
a  line  of  verse  to  a  rank  of  soldiers,  all  bearing 
muskets  at  the  same  angle  on  their  left  shoul- 
ders ;  but  verse  which  possesses  no  higher  quality 
than  this  mechanical  regularity  would  be  of  very 
little  poetic  worth.  The  rhythmical  scheme,  over- 
lying the  regular  accentual  or  metrical  scheme, 
depends  principally  on  the  succession  of  tones 
and  on  the  management  of  pauses.  It  is  this 
which  interprets  emotion  and  is  the  true  poetic 
structure.  In  blank-verse  the  metrical  scheme 
is  partly  lost  sight  of  in  delivery.  It  is  subordi- 
nated, though  not  entirely  submerged.  Rhythm 
adds  to  some  of  the  equally  spaced  accents  the 
force  of  emphasis,  the  rhetorical  accent  con- 
nected with  the  thought,  and  superinduces  a 
long  wave  on  the  equal  beats.  It  varies  contin- 
ually, while  the  regular  accent-beat  is  always  the 
same.  When  the  rhythmical  scheme  is  uniform 
and  coincides  with  the  metrical  scheme,  we  have 
the  tiresome  manner  of  Pope  ;  but  if  the  metrical 
scheme  is  disregarded  entirely,  we  lose  all  poetical 
structure.  We  have  no  foundation  on  which  to 
base  rhythm.  The  result  is  not  verse,  but  rhyth- 
mical prose,  in  which  we  discern  here  and  there 
the  fragment  of  a  line. 

The  building  of  this  complicated  structure  is 
poetic  art.  The  part  of  it  which  is  metrical  can 
be  investigated,  and  within  certain  limits  made 


THE    MUSICAL    POWER  147 

the  basis  of  a  science  called  prosody,  rightly  called 
a  science  because  it  is  subject  to  uniformity  and 
deals  with  comparatively  exact  things — accents. 
The  part  of  it  which  is  rhythmical  can  be  com- 
mented on  and  its  beauty  felt,  but  as  it  rests  on 
modifications  of  sound  which  have  no  definite 
connection  with  thought,  it  cannot  be  reduced  to 
.aws,  and  its  varieties  are  too  great  to  be  sub- 
jected to  classification.  In  it  each  poet  is  a  law 
to  himself  and  does  his  work  instinctively,  and 
gives  out  a  part  of  himself.  The  man  who  can 
superinduce  rhythm  on  metre  is  a  poet ;  the  men 
who  can  build  only  metrical  structures  are  versi- 
fiers. Shakespeare's  Tempest  is  a  beautiful  ex- 
ample of  metre  overlaid  with  rhythm.  Much  of 
Wordsworth's  blank-verse  is  simply  metrical. 

What  is  usually  called  prosody  may  be  carried 
out  to  great  refinement  of  classification,  and  re- 
main a  barren  and  fruitless  study,  unless  we  re- 
member that  it  refers  to  the  framework  of  verse 
merely.  Beating  time  is  effected  by  the  simplest 
part  of  the  mechanics  of  verse  ;  indeed,  by  the 
part  which  partakes  so  largely  of  the  nature  of 
material  mechanics  as  to  fall  by  itself  below  the 
dignity  of  a  "fine  art."  Those  who  use  it  practi- 
cally in  writing  verse  know  very  little  about  it 
scientifically,  and  do  no  more  than  apply  the 
elementary  principles  instinctively.  Shakespeare 
and  Burns  were  unacquainted  with  its  technical 
terms  ;  nor  is  it  understood  with  anything  like 


148  ELEMENTS    OF    LITERARY    CRITICISM 

the  scientific  precision  that  music  is.  It  is  safe 
to  give  but  the  merest  outline  of  this  foundation 
of  the  music  of  poetry. 

The  Hue  or  group  of  words  is  composed  oi 
accented  and  unaccented  syllables.  If  the  ac- 
cented syllables  occupy  the  even-numbered  places, 
and  are  more  closely  connected  with  the  unac- 
cented syllables  before  them  than  with  those  after 
them,  these  groups  of  the  two  syllables— one  ac- 
cented and  one  unaccented  —  are  called  iambic 
feet ;  if  the  contrary  is  the  case,  they  are  called 
trochaic  feet. 

"I  judge  j  by  this  |  quies  |  cence  I  1  am  old" 

is  an  iambic  line. 

"Ever  I  deeper, I  deeper,]  deeper" 

is  a  trochaic  line.  In  reading  aloud,  the  divisions 
into  feet  are  not  brought  out,  though  they  are 
unconsciously  felt.  The  accents  are  marked  rather 
less  forcibly  but  more  uniformly  than  they  are 
in  reading  prose.  If  we  mark  the  divisions — the 
feet — by  slight  pauses,  we  are  said  to  scan  the 
line. 

In  order  to  bring  out  the  structure,  the  termi- 
nation of  a  line  should  always  be  marked  by  a 
slight  pause,  shorter  than  that  which  marks  the 
ends  of  clauses  and  sentences.  If  this  pause  is 
made  too  long,  the   metrical  structure  is  made 


THE    MUSICAL    POWER  I49 

unpleasantly  evident  ;  if  it  is  omitted  entirely, 
which  may  be  done  when  the  grammatical  pause 
does  not  coincide  with  the  end  of  the  line,  the 
composition  becomes  little  more  than  rhythmical 
prose.  A  single  accented  syllable  sometimes  takes 
the  place  of  a  foot,  most  frequently  at  the  end  of 
the  line,  the  pause  taking  up  the  time  which  would 
normally  be  occupied  by  the  utterance  of  the  un- 
accented syllable. 

The  standard  line-group  in  English'  poetry  con- 
sists of  five  iambic  feet,  the  rhymed  and  the  un- 
rhymed  pentameter,  the  heroic  couplet,  and  Eng- 
lish blank -verse.  The  next  most  common  line 
is  the  four-accent  iambic  line  used  in  In  Menio- 
riam.  Lines  of  two  or  three  accents  are  less  fre- 
quently used,  and  belong  usually  to  lyric  verse — 
that  is,  verse  in  which  the  singing  quality  is  more 
marked  than  the  descriptive,  narrative,  or  pic- 
torial quality.  Lines  of  six  accents  are  not  so 
frequently  written,  and  lilies  of  seven  or  eight 
accents  invariably  tend  to  break  into  two  shorter 
ones,  as  may  readily  be  seen  in  reading  the  eight- 
accent  lines  of  Lockslcy  Hall. 

The  end  of  the  line  is  marked  by  a  strong  ac- 
cent, which  gives  notice  of  the  completion  of  one 
of  the  symmetrical  word-groups.  The  very  es- 
sence of  verse  is  a  symmetrical  acoustic  sub- 
structure, overlaid  with  varying  ornamental 
sound-sequences.  In  order  to  mark  the  end  of 
the  lines  more  emphatically  a  decorative  device 


15°  ELE.MEXTS    OF    LITERARY    CRITICISM 

was  invented  early  in  the  Middle  Ages,  which  has 
become  almost  universal  in  English  poetry,  and 
has  probably  been  more  productive  of  pleasure 
to  the  human  race  than  any  other  invention,  ex- 
cept that  of  musical  instruments.  It  is  called 
rhyme,  and  applies  to  the  accented  syllable 
which  marks  the  end  of  the  line,  and  consists 
in  identity  of  vowel  sound  and  subsequent  con- 
sonant sound  with  difference  of  preceding  con- 
sonant sourfd.  Thus  room  and  boom,  or  June 
and  tune,  rhyme  perfectly  ;  Jniic  and  moon, 
rhyme  imperfectly.  If  the  line  has  a  trochaic 
ending,  the  accented  syllables  rhyme,  and  the 
terminal  unaccented  syllables  are  identical,  like 
lover  and  plover.  This  is  known  as  a  feminine 
rhyme. 

The  function  of  the  rhyme  is  threefold :  first, 
it  individualizes  the  line  by  bringing  its  termina- 
tion prominently  into  notice.  It  gives  the  pleas- 
ure the  human  mind  takes  in  correspondence  or 
echoes  of  sound.  It  links  the  lines  in  groups — 
couplets  or  triplets  or  quatrains  with  similar 
sound-terminations — thereby  creating  the  next 
higher  group,  or  stanza,  which  without  rhyme 
could  only  be  constructed  of  lines  that  were 
marked  by  similar  accent  positions  or  similar 
lengths. 

The  stanza  should  not  exceed  eight  or  nine 
lines  :  eight  as  in  the  ottava  rima  or  the  octave 
of   the   sonnet,  and    nine    as    in  the    Spenserian 


THE    MUSICAL    POWER  15  I 

Stanza,  because  the  mind  does  not  readily  com- 
prehend acoustic  imits  of  greater  length  as 
wholes,  but  the  possible  combinations  of  lines  of 
different  lengths  marked  by  either  a  feminine  or 
a  masculine  rhyme,  or  by  different  positions  in 
the  stanza,  is  very  great  indeed.  Taking  eight 
lines  as  the  limit  of  the  stanza,  four  as  the  limit 
of  corresponding  rhymes,  two— masculine  and 
feminine — as  the  kinds  of  rhyme,  and  the  length 
of  lines  as  running  from  three  to  six  feet,  we 
could  have  an  enormous  number — many  millions 
— as  the  possible  stanzaic  combinations  in  which 
either  the  trochaic  or  iambic  foot  was  used  in- 
differently. The  number  is  greatly  increased  by 
the  facts  that  a  single  long  syllable  may  be  used 
as  a  terminal,  and  that  there  is  another  impor- 
tant kind  of  foot  consisting  of  three  syllables. 
This  comprises  the  dactyl,  in  which  the  accented 
syllable  is  followed  by  two  unaccented  ;  the  am- 
phibrach, in  which  the  accented  syllable  is  be- 
tween the  two  unaccented  ones  ;  and  the  ana- 
pest,  in  which  the  accented  syllable  is  preceded 
by  two  unaccented  ones.  The  possible  num- 
ber of  different  stanzaic  forms  is  therefore 
practically  infinite.  But  few  have  been  found 
which  have  distinct  character,  though,  no  doubt, 
many  beautiful  stanzaic  forms  remain  undiscov- 
ered. 

With  regard  to  the  musical  qualities  of  the  line 
based  on  the   iambic,  trochaic,  or   dactylic  beat, 


15  2  ELEMENTS    OP    LITERARY    CRITICISM 

the  iambic  foot  is  rather  the  best  suited  to  the 
English  language,  although  the  musical  energy 
of  a  line  depends  more  upon  the  rhythm  than  the 
metre,  and  therefore  less  upon  the  foot  than  upon 
the  rhyme  and  other  elements.  The  iambus  is 
the  more  natural  because  less  violence  is  done  to 
ordinary  pronunciation  when  a  foot  is  made  up 
of  a  word  or  of  two  syllables  that  belong  together 
grammatically  than  when  the  natural  union  is 
broken,  and  because  very  many  such  combina- 
tions are  regularly  pronounced  as  iambi.  Mono- 
syllabic nouns  are  strongly  accented  in  ordinary 
utterance,  otherwise  they  would  be  submerged. 
They  are  usually  preceded  by  a  particle  or  an 
article  which  belongs  with  them,  thus  forming 
another  large  class  of  iambi.  Monosyllabic  verbs 
are  strong,  but  they  are  frequently  preceded  by 
the  sign  of  the  infinitive,  or  by  one  of  the  pro- 
nouns which  we  can  accent  or  not  at  pleasure. 
These  combinations  are  for  all  pronunciation 
usages  one  word.  For  these  reasons  natural 
iambi  are  so  common  in  English  speech  that  we 
frequently  find  fragments  of  iambic  lines  in  prose, 
and  more  than  two-thirds  of  our  poetry,  and  that 
the  portion  which  is  least  artificial,  is  built  from 
the  iambic  foot,  and  the  iambic  pentameter,  rhymed 
or  unrhymed,  is  the  most  used  line.  Iambic  verse 
will  be  found  on  examination  to  be  written  with 
fewer  inversions  and  to  be  nearer  to  the  nat- 
ural movement  of  the   English    language,  than 


THE    MUSICAL    POWER  153 

that  which  is  written  in  trochees  or  dactyls,  be- 
cause the  use  of  iambic  compels  fewer  harsh 
and  unnatural  syllable  -  combinations.  It  will- 
also  be  found  that  the  syllables  of  a  word  cut 
by  the  caesura  fit  more  easily  into  the  iambic 
mould. 

But  it  must  be  admitted  that  there  is  a  marked 
tendency  in  English  to  place  the  accent  on  the 
first  syllable  of  dissyllabic  nouns,  like  student, 
teacher,  father,  and  nearly  all  proper  names.  The 
comparative  and  superlative  forms  of  monosyl- 
labic adjectives,  like  deeper,  swifter,  and  the  par- 
ticiples of  monosllyabic  verbs,  like  going,  loving, 
furnish  natural  trochaic  combinations.  So  are 
all  the  adverbs,  like  softly,  sloi^'ly.  Nevertheless, 
these  are  not  numerous  enough  to  prevent  tro- 
chaic verse  from  having  a  slightly  foreign  sound. 
It  is  a  little  further  removed  from  prose  move- 
ment than  iambic  verse  is.  By  reason  of  this  very 
strangeness  trochaic  verse  is  sometimes  very  at- 
tractive poetically.  Again,  the  feminine  rhyrne, 
one  of  the  most  beautiful  verse-elements,  compels 
the  use  of  a  trochee,  as  does  the  termination  of  a 
line  in  a  single  accented  syllable. 

Longfellow's  Psalm  of  Life  is  trochaic  : 

"Tell  nic  I  not,  in  |  mournful  |  numbers,  | 
'  Life  is  I  but  an  |  empty  dream  !' 
For  the  |  soul  is  |  dead  that  |  slumbers. 
And  things  |  are  not  |  what  they  |  seem." 


154  ELEMENTS    OP    LITERARY    CRITICISM 

So,  also,  is  the  poem  Hiazvatha  : 

"  Ever  I  deeper,  |  deeper,  |  deeper  | 
Fell  the  |  snow;  o'er  |  all  the  |  landscape 
Fell  the  |  covering  |  snow,  and  |  drifted 
Through  the  |  forest  |  round  the  |  village. 

"All  the  I  earth  was  |  sick  and  |  famished, 
Hungry  |  was  the  |  sky  a  j  bove  them. 
And  the  |  hungry  |  stars  a  |  bove  them, 
Like  the  |  eyes  of  |  wolves  glared  |  at  them." 

It  seems  quite  evident  that  both  of  these  ex- 
amples— especially  the  last  —  have  a  movement 
more  foreign  in  sound  than  English  iambic  poetry 
generally  has.  In  fact,  in  reading  from  Hiawatha 
we  are  very  apt  to  carry  the  last  syllable  of  the 
line  over  to  the  next  one,  and  so  change  the  poem 
from  a  trochaic  to  an  iambic  one,  so  dominant  is 
our  tendency  to  the  iambic  movement.  Compar- 
ing one  of  Longfellow's  iambic  poems  we  see  that 
it  sounds  slightly  more  like  the  ordinary  English 
speech.  Longfellow  is  taken  as  an  example  be- 
cause he  is  a  poet  whose  art  is  typical.  The  follow- 
ing quotation  from  Keats's  Robin  Hood  ■bhows  how 
beautiful  trochaic  measures  are  sometimes  from 
the  very  fact  that  they  are  slightly  unnatural : 

"  No  !   those  days  are  gone  away 
And  their  hours  are  old  and  gray, 
And  their  minutes  buried  all 
Under  the  down-trodden  pall 


THE    MUSICAL    POWER  155 

Of  the  leaves  of  many  years ! 
Many  times  have  winter's  shears 
Frozen   North  and  chilling  East, 
Sounded  tempests  to  the  feast 
Of  the  forest's  whispering  fleeces, 
Since  men  knew  nor  rent  nor  leases. 

"No,  the  bugle  sounds  no  more. 
And  the  twanging  bow  no  more; 
Silent  is  the  ivory  shrill, 
Past  the  heath  and  up  the  hill; 
There  is  no  mid-forest  laugh 
When  lone  Echo  gives  the  half 
To  some  wight  amazed  to  hear 
Jesting,  deep  in  forest  drear." 

In  the  same  metre  are  his  Lhics  on  the  Mer- 
maid Tavern,  which  begin  : 

"  Souls  of  poets  dead  and  gone. 
What  Elysium  have  ye  known, 
Happy  field  or  mossy  cavern. 
Choicer  than  the  Mermaid  Tavern  ?" 

The  lovely  lyrical  movement  of  those  simple 
trochaic  lines  must  be  evident  to  the  least  re- 
sponsive ear,  and  the  epithet  "unnatural"  means 
simply  that  it  is  more  foreign  to  the  normal  prose 
movement  of  English  than  octosyllabic  iambics 
would  be.  The  same  musical  quality  of  trochaic 
verse  is  evident  in  what  is  one  of  the  most  beau- 


156  ELEMEXTS    OF    LITERARY    CRTTICISM 

tiful  sound-combinations  in  the  language,  Shake- 
speare's song: 

"Take,  O  take  those  Hps  away 
That  so  sweetly  were  forsworn ! 
And  those  eyes,  the  break  of  day, 

Li.t;hts  that  do  mislead  the  morn! 
But  my  kisses  bring  again, 

Bring  again, 
Seals  of  love,  but  sealed  in  vain ! 
Sealed  in  vain  !" 

The  Trinity  Hymn  and  the  magnificent  Rock 
of  Ages  Cleft  for  Me  are  further  examples  of  the 
same  quality,  as  is  the  lyric  of  Prosser  Frye's,  be- 
ginning : 

"  Softly  strike  upon  the  strings 
Till  the  answering  music  rings 
Like  the  ripple  of  a  stream 
Running  low  athwart  a  dream." 

An  iambic  scansion  might  be  forced  upon  the 
above  by  calling  the  first  foot  a  long  syllable,  but 
such  a  division  would  evidently  do  violence  to  the 
musical  quality. 

In  saying  that  trochaic  verse  has  a  peculiar 
haunting  music  of  its  own  it  is  not  intended  to 
convey  the  idea  that  iambic  verse  is  not  also 
musical.  Tennyson's  lyrics,  notably  the  Bugle 
Song,  and  Newman's  Lead,  Kindly  LigJit  —  the 
most   beautiful    hymn   of   the   century  —  would 


THE    MUSICAL    POWER  157 

prove  that  on  the  iambic  base  may  be  built  struct- 
ures of  perfect  melody.  Still,  the  charm  of  the 
trochee  seems  slightly  more  delicate,  evanescent, 
and  subtle  than  the  charm  of  the  iambic.  The 
trochee  rims  or  trips  ;  the  iambic  marches,  and 
a  dignified  march  is  more  germane  to  English 
than  a  dance. 

Of  course  poems  are  not  necessarily  written  in 
either  trochee  or  iambic  to  the  exclusion  of  the 
other.  On  many  syllable  combinations  the  ac- 
cent is  not  so  decided  that  they  cannot  be  used 
indifferently  as  trochees  or  iambi.  The  personal 
pronouns  that  come  in  so  frequently  can  be 
treated  as  accented  or  non- accented,  according 
to  the  exigencies  of  the  verse.  The  principle  is 
that  in  the  English  language  groups  of  iambic 
are  slightly  more  natural  than  combinations  of 
trochees.  The  old  ballad  measure  is  iambic,  and 
the  preference  for  iambic  feet  led  to  the  use  of 
the  inverted  forms  —  "a  lady  gay,"  "a  maiden 
fair,"  and  the  like. 

The  combinations  of  iambic  and  trochaic  lines 
in  the  poem  can  be  successfully  attempted  only 
by  poets  of  the  most  delicate  musical  ear.  In 
their  hands  the  union  of  the  two  sometimes  re- 
sults in  structures  of  surprising  harmony  and 
variety.  Milton's  //  Penseroso  and  L Allegro  are 
examples  of  this.  The  succession  of  iambic  four- 
accent  lines  is  continually  interrupted  by  trochaic 
lines,  or  by  lines  beginning  with  an  unaccented 


158  ELEMENTS    OF    LITERARY    CRITICISM 

syllable.  Trochees  may  even  be  found  in  the 
iambic  lines  without  giving  in  the  least  the  effect 
of  a  misplaced  accent.  Some  passages  are  largely 
trochaic. 

"  Haste  thee,  Nymph,  and  bring  with  thee 
Jest,  and  youthful  Jollity, 
Quips,  and  cranks,  and   wanton  wiles. 
Nods,  and  becks,  and  wreathed  smiles. 
Such  as   hang  on    Hebe's  cheek, 
And  love  to  live  in  dimple  sleek; 
Sport,  that  wrinkled  Care  derides, 
And  Laughter  holding  both  his  sides. 
Come,  and  trip  it  as  you  go. 
On  the  light  fantastic  toe. 
And  in  thy  right   hand  lead   with  thee. 
The  mountain  nymph,  sweet  Liberty." 

The  last  four  lines  illustrate  the  change  of 
movement  which  characterizes  the  entire  poem. 

Feet  of  three  syllables,  one  accented  and  two 
unaccented,  are  not  uncommon  combinations  in 
English.  Such  words  as  sensitive,  radiant,  tender- 
ly, balcony  are  natural  dactyls.  Dactyls  are  invari- 
ably used  in  combination  with  shorter  feet,  but  the 
metres  into  which  they  enter  are  termed  dactylic. 
Their  presence  gives  liveliness  to  humorous  verse 
and  power  to  serious  verse.     Hood's  Bridge  of 

Sighs — 

"One  more  un  )  fortunate,. 

Weary  of  |  breath, 

Rashly  im  ]  portunate, 

Gone  to  her  |  death  " — 


THE    MUSICAL    POWER  159 

is  dactylic,  and  Browning's  Lost  Leader — 

"Just  for  a  I  handful  of  |  silver  he  |  left  us. 
Just  for  a  I  ribbon  to  |  stick  in  his  |  coat" — • 

is  another  example.  The  English  hexameter 
which  ends  with  a  trochee  is  apt  to  contain  too 
many  dactyls,  as  in  Longfellow's  Evangeline  and 
Kingsley's  Andromeda. 

"This  is  the  |  forest  pri  |  meval,the  ]  murmuring  |  pines 

and   the  )  hemlocks, 
Bearded    with  |  moss    and     in  |  garments  |  green,    in- 

dis  I  tinct  in  the  |  twilight, 
Stand    like  |  druids    of  j  eld    with  |  voices  |  sad    and 

pro  I  phetic." 

These  three  lines  contain  eleven  dactyls  to 
seven  trochees. 

The  peculiar  qualities  of  this  foot  are,  however, 
seen  better  in  shorter  lines,  as  in  Longfellow's 
Skeleton  in  Armor  and  Drayton's  Agincourt,  and 
numberless  semi-humorous  verses,  which  invari- 
ably possess  the  quality  of  vigor.  It  Avas  not 
much  used  during  the  sixteenth,  seventeenth,  and 
eighteenth  centuries,  except  here  and  there  in  a 
ballad.  Goldsmith  uses  it  and  the  anapest  with 
good  effect  in  some  of  his  lighter  verse.  During 
the  present  century  some  of  our  poets  have  used 
it,  as  Shelley  in  The  Sensitive  Plant.  Mr.  Swin- 
burne, whose  skill  in  verbal  acrobatics  has  added 
many  ingenious  metres,  has  shown  the  capacity 


l6o  ELEMENTS    OF    LITERARY    CRITICISM 

of  this  foot  and  its  companion  the  anapest  in 
many  new  combinations.  It  is  not  the  same  thing 
as  the  Greek  dactyl  any  more  than  the  English 
hexameter  is  the  same  as  the  Greek  hexameter, 
because  Greek  is  a  differently  constituted  lan- 
guage from  English,  but  it  is  analogous  to  it,  and 
it  adds  greatly  to  the  musical  resources  of  Eng- 
lish verse. 

The  metrical  structure  of  regularly  recurring 
accents,  even  when  the  lines  are  clearly  defined 
by  rhyme,  would  have  little  life  or  vigor  were  it 
not  ornamented  by  tone-combinations.  Sequences 
of  similar  consonant  sounds,  called  alliterations, 
and  sequences  of  similar  vowel  sounds,  called  as- 
sonances, as  well  as  contrast  of  sounds,  give  body 
to  the  verse.  These  combinations  are  so  numer- 
ous and  subtle  as  to  defy  discovery,  and  although 
we  become  aware  of  a  certain  quality  that  dis- 
tinguishes the  music  of  Longfellow,  Rossetti,  or 
Tennyson,  we  can  never  be  sure  that  we  have 
found  in  any  case  the  characteristic  element. 
An  attempt  to  imitate  them  shows  at  once  that 
only  the  grosser  part  can  be  comprehended.  And 
it  is  the  fine  part  that  really  constitutes  their 
poetry.  Almost  any  one  by  taking  pains  can 
write  verse  in  which,  by  a  little  forcing  and  slur- 
ring— which  must  be  done  in  almost  all  verse — 
the  accents  will  fall  with  regularity  and  the 
rhymes  be  correct.  Few  can  produce  more  than 
one  or  two  musical  lines,  and  few  can  make  their 


THE    MUSICAL    POWKR  l6l 

verse  rhythmical.  The  more  complicated  har- 
monies are  out  of  the  reach  of  all  but  the  excep- 
tional individuals  to  whom  they  are  the  natural 
means  of  expression.  Verse  is  a  very  complicated 
structure ;  feet,  lines,  stanzas,  rhymes,  assonances, 
phrases,  clauses,  and  sentences,  compounded  into 
a  whole  which  is  more  than  the  sum  of  its  parts. 
At  the  bottom  lies  the  metrical  structure  of  equal 
time-beats  divided  into  line  groups.  Over  this 
is  thrown  the  loosely  fitting  and  varying  rhythm 
regulating  the  monotonous  succession  of  sounds 
by  a  higher  and  inscrutable  law. 

Verse  may  be  metrically  correct,  but  unless  it 
has  some  rhythmical  rise  and  fall  it  will  be  value- 
less as  emotional  expression.  The  even  beats  of 
a  pendulum  do  not  touch  the  heart.  The  monot- 
onous stroke  of  a  bell  is  irritating  if  prolonged. 
Equidistant  sounds  are  meaningless  and  tedious, 
even  though  each  one  be  resonant  and  beautiful  ; 
but  when  successive  sounds  are  slightly  differen- 
tiated, so  that  they  can  be  grouped,  and  there  is 
a  movement  of  succession  among  them,  so  that 
they  increase  in  volume  or  quality  and  then  di- 
minish, each  related  to  the  preceding  one  in  vary- 
ing proportions,  not  lawlessly,  but  regulated  by  a 
law  we  cannot  formulate,  then  the  succession  of 
sounds  assumes  meaning,  has  life  and  significance, 
recalls  forgotten  moods,  and  is  in  some  measure 
part  of  the  universal  harmony  of  nature.  If  the 
measured  strokes  of  a  bell  are  brought  to  us  from 


162  ELEMENTS    OP    LITERARY    CRITICISM 

a  distance,  the  air,  which,  even  on  the  stillest  day, 
is  full  of  movements  and  currents  and  pulsations 
such  as  mould  the  clouds,  causes  the  sounds  some- 
times to  increase  and  then  to  linger  and  die  away. 
The  mechanical  metre  of  man  is  overlaid  by  one 
of  the  rhythmic  schemes  of  nature,  of  which  we 
are  a  part,  and  we  are  conscious  of  some  quality 
of  the  sound  that  is  beautiful  and  suggestive. 

The  energy  of  nature  tends  to  rhythmical  ex- 
pression. The  sounds  of  nature  are  almost  in- 
variably rhythmical,  because,  as  said  before,  the 
air  wliich  conveys  them  is  never  entirely  at  rest. 
Even  the  monotonous  sound  of  Niagara  impresses 
itself  upon  the  listener  at  a  slight  distance  as 
something  alive.  There  is  a  beat  or  pulsation 
running  through  it,  or  else  it  is  echoed  from  a 
cloud,  or  it  passes  through  strata  of  air  of  differ- 
ent densities,  so  as  to  cause  it  to  rise  and  fall, 
according  to  physical  law.  When  the  wind  is 
blowing  the  character  of  the  sound  is  entirely 
changed.  The  intensity  and  pitch  vary  continu- 
ally, and  give  rise  to  a  rhythm  which,  though  not 
metrical,  is  governed  by  some  law.  The  rhythm 
of  waves  breaking  on  an  irregular  coast-line  is  evi- 
dent. It  approaches  nearer  to  a  measured  beat, 
but  it  has  its  own  cadences,  for  no  two  waves  are 
precisely  similar  and  no  two  successive  waves  are 
entirely  independent.  The  life  of  human  beings 
is  dependent  on  two  metrical  movements,  the 
breathing  and  the  beating  of  the  heart.     These 


THE    MUSICAL    POWER  1 63 

are  accelerated  or  retarded  by  the  intensity  of 
life,  by  emotion.  So  closely  are  the  physical  and 
mental  connected  that  every  phase  of  feeling 
finds  its  best  expression  in  rhythmical  move- 
ment. In  cases  of  elevated  feeling,  whether  of 
sorrow,  indignation,  or  exultation,  this  tendency 
to  rhythmical  movement  is  so  forcibly  impressed 
on  words  that  it  attaches  itself  to  the  words  when 
they  are  transferred  from  one  language  to  an- 
other. It  belongs  to  the  idea.  Such  a  rhythm 
is  sometimes  called  a  "sense- rhythm,"  and  is 
proper  to  prose.  The  rhythms  which  express  the 
more  delicate  and  artificial  emotions  cannot  be 
translated.  They  belong  to  the  poet  as  an  indi- 
vidual and  to  his  personal  manner  of  expressing 
himself.  The  sense-rhythm  is  universal.  It  be- 
longs to  humanity.  Thus  the  writer  of  the  He- 
brew Psalms  was  inspired,  not  by  the  scenery  of 
Palestine  nor  by  adoration  of  some  local  god  who 
presided  over  its  barren  hills,  but  by  the  concep- 
tion of  the  great,  universal,  spiritual  power,  whose 
"  is  the  earth  and  the  fulness  thereof."  There- 
fore, his  words,  when  translated,  carry  the  ma- 
jestic rhythm  with  them.  Mr.  Theodore  Watts 
quotes  from  the  book  of  Hindu  law  in  support  of 
this  view  of  the  connection  between  idea  and  form: 

"  Single  is  each  man  born  into  the  world ;  single  he 
dies;  single  he  receives  the  reward  of  his  good  deeds, 
and  single  the  punishment  of  his  evil  deeds.  When  he 
dies  his  body  lies  lil^e  a  fallen  tree  upon  the  earth,  but 


164  ELEMENTS    OF    LITERARY    CRITICISM 

his  virtue  accompanies  his  soul.  Wlierefore  let  man  har- 
vest and  garner  virtue,  so  that  he  may  have  an  insepara- 
ble companion  in  traversing  that  gloom  which  is  so  hard 
to  be  traversed." 

It  is  evident  that  the  seriousness  of  the  thought 
of  man's  personahty,  of  the  individuality  of  the 
soul,  so  impressed  the  original  writer  that  his 
words  fell  into  a  solemn  cadence.  And  as  this 
thought  has  a  universal  application  to  the  race 
of  man  and  not  merely  to  some  one  man,  it  falls 
naturally  into  a  rhythmical  form  when  translated 
into  English.  This  fact,  that  the  words  of  exalted 
thought  and  universal  application  naturally  fall 
into  a  rhythmical  form,  is  exemplified  by  the 
address  of  the  Northumbrian  chief  reported  by 
Bede,  by  Walter  Raleigh's  apostrophe  to  death, 
by  Lincoln's  Gettysburg  address,  by  prayers  to 
God  conceived  in  a  serious  and  elevated  spirit, 
as  many  of  the  collects,  by  the  narrative  of  the 
crucifixion,  by  much  of  the  Book  of  Job — in  a.\ 
word,  by  all  expression  where  the  writer  is  con- 
scious of  the  dignity  of  his  theme. 

As  an  example  of  a  metric  scheme  overlaid 
with  a  rhythmical  scheme,  yet  still  retaining  def- 
inite symmetry,  let  us  take  one  of  Shakespeare's 
sonnets : 

"  Let  me  not  to  the  marriage  of  true  minds 
Admit   impediments.     Love  is  not  love 
Which  alters  when   it  alteration  finds, 
Or  bends  with  the  remover  to  remove ; 


THE    MUSICAL    POWER  1 65 

Oh   no,  it  is  an  ever- fixed  mark, 

That  looks  on  tempests  and  is  never  shaken ; 

It  is  the  star  to  every  wandering  bark 

Whose    worth's    unknown,    although     his    height    be 

taken. 
Love's  not  time's  fool,  though   rosy  lips  and  cheeks 
Within  his  bending  sickle's  compass  come: 
Love  alters  not  with  his  brief  hours  and  weeks, 
But  bears  it  out  even  to  the  edge  of  doom. 
If  this  be  error  and  upon  me  proved, 
I  never  writ  nor  no  man  ever  loved." 

In  the  first  line  the  metric  scheme  is  almost 
entirely  obscured.  No  one  would  think  of  read- 
ing it  as  it  scans  : 

"Let  me  |  not  to  |  the  mar  |  riage  of  |  true  minds,  | 

nor  the  first  part  of  the  second  line,  "Admit 
imped  |  iments."  The  phrase  is  too  strong  and 
abrupt.  There  is  a  marked  rhythm  in  it  rising 
quickly  to  "  not,"  then  again  a  wave  ending  in 
"  minds,"  and  a  tumultuous  level  in  "Admit  im- 
pediments," expressing  an  energy  of  resolution 
which  is  kept  up  in  the  next  clause,  *'  Love  is  not 
love."  Thus  far  we  have  no  hint  of  the  line  or 
indeed  of  any  measure,  but  the  next  line — 

"  Which  al  \  ters  when  |  it  al  |  tera  |  tion  finds" — 

is  not  only  a  grammatical  unit  but  the  metrical 
structure  comes  to  the  surface,  the  rhythm,  three 


l66  ELEMENTS   OF    LITERARY    CRITICISM 

waves  with  their  summits  on  the  accented  syl- 
lables of  the  first,  third,  and  fifth  feet,  now  fits 
the  line  whose  termination  is  clearly  marked  by 
the  strong  rhyme  between  "  finds  "  and  "minds." 
This  coincidence  between  grammatical  structure 
and  line,  rhythmic  wave  and  metric  accent,  is  kept 
up  in  the  next  line, 

"  Or  bends  with  the  remover  to  remove," 

which  is  also  a  grammatical  unit  with  precisely 
the  same  rhythm  as  the  former,  but  as  the  line 
structure  has  been  already  clearly  defined  ter- 
minates with  a  less  perfect  rhyme. 

The  next  ten  lines  are  by  their  grammatical 
structure  divided  into  five  groups  of  two  each. 
In  these  the  rhythmic  scheme  also  groups  two 
lines  in  pairs,  and  the  metric  scheme  is  subordi- 
nated. The  first  and  second  pairs  have  the  same 
movement  of  two  waves  in  each  line : 

"  Oh  no,  it  is  an  ever-fixed  mark, 
That  looks  on  tempests  and  is  never  shaken ; 
It  is  the  star  to  every  wandering  bark, 
Whose    worth's    unknown,  although    his    height    be 
taken." 

The  similarity  of  the  rhythm  in  these  can  hardly 
escape  notice,  although  the  summit  of  the  first 
wave  in  the  first  comes  on  the  second  syllable 
and  in  the  third  on  the  fourth.  In  each  pair  are 
two  waves.     In  the  next  pair  the  metrical  scheme 


THE    MUSICAL    POWER  167 

is  more  marked  and  the  rhythm  less  accentual, 
and,  especially  in  the  second,  is  reinforced  by  a 
beautiful  series  of  assonances  and  alliterations. 

"Within  his  bending  sickle's  compass  come" 

is  a  very  beautiful  line.  We  hear  the  metrical 
stroke  very  plainly.  The  "s's"  in  "sickle"  and 
"compass"  echo  those  in  "rosy  lips  and  cheeks" 
in  the  line  above.  This  line  has  but  one  rhyth- 
mical wave  similar  to  the  wave  in  the  tenth  line — 

"  But  bears  it  out  even  to  the  edge  of  doom." 

Finally,  the  sonnet  ends  with  a  couplet,  each 
line  of  which  has  the  same  metrical  movement, 
a  single  wave,  with  the  summit  in  the  middle  of 
the  line  and  the  lowest  point  at  the  end. 

We  can  say  this  of  this  sonnet :  that  the  met- 
rical structure,  though  perfect  and  uniform 
throughout,  is  much  more  evident  in  some  lines 
than  in  others ;  that  the  rhythmical  scheme  is 
varied  and  overlies  the  metric  scheme,  at  first 
concealing  it  entirely  ;  that  the  rhythm  depends 
on  the  relative  strength  of  the  successive  metri- 
cal accents,  on  the  logical  emphasis,  and  on  the 
tone-color  or  succession  of  similar  sounds,  and  is 
largely  influenced  by  the  increased  accentual  em- 
phasis on  the  rhyming  syllables.  We  can  say, 
further,  that  the  rhythm  of  the  lines,  though 
varied,  is  still  obedient  to  a  certain  norm  ;  that 


l68  ELEMENTS    OP    LITERARY    CRITICISM 

the  rhythm  is  recurrent  in  certain  lines  with  very 
pleasant  effect,  though  if  a  similar  rhythm  re- 
curred in  every  line  we  should  have  had  a  mo- 
notonous, singsong  effect,  and  that  the  stanzaic 
structure  influences  the  rhythm,  if  it  does  not 
entirely  determine  it.     In  such  a  line  as 

"  But  bears  it  out  even  to  the  edge  of  doom," 

the  rhythm,  with  the  defiant  emphasis  on  "out" 
and  the  solemn  fall  on  the  syllables  "  even  to  the 
edge  of  doom,"  is  correspondent  to  the  senti- 
ment, and  the  entire  structure  expresses  as  much 
through  its  rhythmical  movement  as  it  does  by 
the  direct  significance  of  the  words. 

It  might  be  said  that  all  this  is  purely  sub- 
jective, that  it  is  what  an  individual  reader  sees 
in  poetry  or  imagines  he  sees.  That  is  true. 
But  I  think  that  it  will  be  found  that  all  poetry 
that  has  stood  the  test  of  time  has  the  rhythmical 
quality  in  addition  to  qualities  of  content,  mean- 
ing, etc.  ;  that  the  rhythm  is  the  most  important 
part  of  the  form,  and  that  all  persons  who  are 
fond  of  poetry  give  it  when  reading  a  marked 
rhythmical  movement,  in  some  cases  even  sup- 
pressing the  rhymes,  and  in  blank-verse  making 
the  line  structure  entirely  subordinate  to  the 
rhythmical  wave. 

As  an  example  of  dactylic  verse,  Shelley's  Sen- 
sitive Plant  may  be  taken.     It  is  full  of  beautiful 


THE    MUSICAL    POWER  1 69 

rhythms,  which  could  hardly  have  been  superin- 
duced on  an  iambic  structure.  As  a  rule,  the 
rhythmical  units  coincide  with  the  lines.  It  is 
written  in  quatrains  rhyming  in  couplets.  The 
normal  line  is  three  dactyls  and  an  accented  syl- 
lable. As  this  long  syllable  is  the  rhyming  sylla- 
ble, it  can  readily  fill  the  time  of  the  other  feet. 
But  instead  of  dactyls  we  frequently  find  two 
and  even  four  syllables,  and  the  accent  is  as  fre- 
quently on  the  second  or  even  on  the  third  sylla- 
ble of  the  foot  as  on  the  first.  The  lines,  there- 
fore, vary  in  length  from  nine  to  eleven  syllables, 
and  the  places  of  the  first  three  accents  are  not 
fixed  with  absolute  definiteness  in  the  line.  These 
variations  give  very  different  rhythms  to  different 
passages,  but  the  poom  is  a  very  musical  combi- 
nation of  rhythms.  Without  these  variations  the 
decided  beat  that  is  made  by  the  final  syllable 
would  become  very  monotonous.  These  varia- 
tions are  far  from  lawless,  for  they  are  made  by 
a  poet.  But  the  law  is  inscrutable.  To  use  Mr. 
Watts's  figure,  "it  is  inscrutable  as  the  law  which 
blends  the  songs  of  all  the  birds  in  the  thicket 
into  a  chorus."  As  the  songs  are  contemporary, 
they  make  a  harmony  ;  as  the  rhymes  are  consec- 
utive, they  make  a  melody.  But  in  either  case 
the  correspondence  can  only  be  felt ;  it  cannot 
be  analyzed.  There  is,  too,  a  very  subtle  corre- 
spondence between  the  music  of  this  poem  and 
the  mystical,  haunting,  spiritual  suggestions  that 


lyo  ELEMENTS    OP    LITERARY    CRITICISM 

the  theme  brings  to  the  surface  ;  but  that  is  alto- 
gether too  elusive  a  quality  to  submit  to  any  in- 
terpretation.    The  poem  begins  ; 

"  A  sensitive  plant  in  a  garden  grew, 
And  the  young  winds  fed  it  with  silver  dew; 
And  it  opened  its  fan-Hke  leaves  to  the  light, 
And  closed  them  beneath  the  kisses  of  night. 

"  And  the  spring  arose  on  the  garden  fair, 
Like  the  spirit  of  love,  felt  everywhere. 
And  each  flower  and  herb  on  earth's  dark  breast 
Rose  from  the  dreams  of  its  wintry  rest. 

"  But  none  ever  trembled  and  panted  with  bliss 
In  the  garden,  the  field,  or  the  wilderness, 
Like  a  doe  in  the  noontide  with    love's  sweet  want 
As  the  companionless  sensitive  plant. 

"  The  snow-drop  and  then  the  violet 
Arose  from  the  ground  with  warm  rain  wet. 
And  their  breath  was  mixed  with  fresh  odor  sent 
From  the  turf,  like  the  voice  and  the  instrument." 

This  poem  can  be  scanned  in  different  ways ; 
thus,  for  instance,  we  may  divide  : 

"  A  sensitive  |  plant  in  a  |  garden  |  grew," 
or 

"  A  sen  I  sitive  plant  |  in  a  gar  |  den  grew." 


THE    MUSICAL    POWER  I7I 

We  may  divide  : 
"  And  the  spring  |  arose  |  on  the  gar  |  den  fair," 
or 

"  And  the  spring  |  arose  on  the  |  garden  |  fair," 

and  in  either  case  agree  with  a  scheme  of  prosody 
conceived  a  priori.  But  some  lines  will  not  admit 
of  more  than  one  method  of  division.  For  in- 
stance : 

"Told   whilst  the  |  morn  kissed  the  |  sleep  from  her  | 
eyes" 

— three  consecutive  dactyls  and  a  long  syllable. 
Others,  again,  will  divide  only  into  anapests  end- 
ing with  an  iambus,  like 

"  From  the  turf,  |  like  the  voice  |  and  the  in  |  strument." 

Still,  the  number  of  dactyls  preponderates  over 
the  number  of  anapests,  and  we  may  fairly  call 
this  a  dactylic  poem.  In  very  many  cases  the 
dactyl  is  preceded  by  an  unaccented  syllable  with 
no  weight  like  the  "a"  in  "A  sensitive,"  so  that 
in  many  lines  two  extra  syllables  are  found. 
Again,  some  lines  are  short  two  syllables,  like 

"The  plumed  |  insects  |  swift  and  |  free." 

Now,  when  in  a  poem  confessedly  musical  in 
form  the  number  of  syllables  in  a  line  varies  from 


172  ELEMENTS    OF    LITERARY    CRITICISM 

eight  to  twelve,  but  four  accents  invariably  are 
found,  we  must  conclude  that  the  position  and 
number  of  the  accent  is  a  far  more  important 
consideration  than  the  number  of  syllables.  The 
poem  is  written  by  ear,  not  by  counting  on  the 
fingers.  It  obeys  a  melodic  not  a  prosodical  law. 
As  Shelley  himself  says,  "I  have  simply  clothed 
my  thoughts  in  what  appeared  to  me  the  most 
obvious  and  appropriate  language.  A  person 
familiar  with  nature  and  with  the  most  celebrated 
productions  of  the  human  mind  can  scarcely  err 
in  following  his  instinct  with  respect  to  selection 
of  language  produced  by  that  familiarity."  Shel- 
ley's modesty  prevented  him  from  qualifying  his 
statement  by  saying,  "  An  exceptional  person  like 
me,  gifted  with  the  ear  for  the  poetic  rhythms  of 
language,"  instead  of,  simply,  "a  person."  It  is 
not  enough  that  "poetry  and  external  nature 
should  be  a  passion  and  an  engagement."  There 
must  be  the  creative  power  to  construct  a  visible 
habitation  for  the  imprisoned  angel,  or  it  remains 
in  the  soul. 

To  return  to  the  Scnsi/iir  Plant.  The  primary 
measure  being  three  beats  followed  by  a  heavy 
stroke  at  the  end  of  the  line,  the  variations  on 
this  movement  by  the  secondary  rhythm  or  wave 
are  numberless.  Sometimes  the  line  is  shortened 
and  the  beats  equidistant.  Sometimes  the  line 
is  prolonged,  some  of  the  accent-beats  are  brought 
a  little  nearer  each  other  or  moved  a  little  further 


THE    MUSICAL    POWER  173 

apart.  But  in  such  cases  the  power  of  the  beats 
is  altered  so  as  to  bring  in  a  crescendo  or  a  dimin- 
uendo in  the  succession,  and  we  have  wave  after 
wave  in  endless  variation,  all  urged  by  the  same 
wind  or  poetic  afflatus  yet  each  individualized  in 
form  and  color. 

The  rhythmical  groups  are  individualized  by 
pauses — that  is,  the  rhythmical  units  are  gram- 
matical units.  The  metrical  units — the  lines — 
are  marked  off  by  the  heavy  terminal  accent,  or 
by  the  rhyme.  In  the  extract  from  the  Sensitive 
Plant  these  coincide,  and  the  art  of  Shelley  is 
shown  in  impressing  so  many  beautiful  and  vary- 
ing rhythms  upon  a  succession  of  verbal  groups 
of  about  the  same  length.  This  is  called  the 
"end-stopt  form,"  and  may  be  distinguished  by 
the  fact  that  the  marks  of  punctuation  fall  at  the 
end  of  the  lines.  In  the  Shakespearian  sonnet 
there  are  three  rhythmical  units  in  the  first  four 
lines,  the  first  one  of  a  tremendous  and  mascu- 
line power,  ending  with  the  word  "  impediments." 
When  the  rhythmical  or  logical  units  do  not 
coincide  with  the  metrical  units  the  writer  is  said 
to  use  the  "overflow  form."  The  danger  in  the 
end-stopt  form  is,  since  the  rhythmical  units  are 
nearly  the  same  length  acoustically,  that  they 
assume  a  sameness  of  movement,  which  if  sus- 
tained becomes  irritating  and  commonplace.  Of 
this  Pope's  poetry,  especially  his  translation  of 
Homer,  furnishes  many  examples.    In  the  follow- 


174  ELEMENTS    OF    LITERARY    CRITICISM 

ing  quotation  it  will  be  noticed  that  the  rhyth- 
mical units  are  either  whole  lines  or  couplets,  and 
the  monotonous  effect  is  quite  apparent.  The 
entire  construction  suffers  from  excessive  regu- 
larity, every  line,  with  one  exception,  ending  with 
a  mark  of  punctuation  : 

"At  this  Pelides,  frowning  stern,  replied  : 
O  tyrant,  armed   with   insolence  and  pride : 
Inglorious  slave  to  interest,  ever  joined 
With  fraud  unworthy  of  a  royal  mind  ; 
What  generous  Greek,  obedient  to  thy  word. 
Shall  form  an  ambush  and  shall  lift  the  sword? 
What  cause  have  I  to  war  at  thy  decree  ? 
The  distant  Trojans  never  injured  me; 
To  Pythia"s  realms  no  hostile  troops  they  led; 
Safe  in  her  vales  my  warHke  coursers  fed  : 
Far  hence  removed,  the  hoarse-resounding  main, 
And  walls  of  rocks  secure  my  native  reign  ; 
Whose  fruitful  soil  luxuriant  harvests  grace, 
Rich  in  her  fruits  and  in  her  martial  race." 

This  is  metre  and  nothing  else,  and  is  as  far 
removed  from  Shakespeare's  method  as  is  possi- 
ble. The  lines  are  clauses,  and  the  couplets  give 
the  impression  of  having  been  manufactured  sep- 
arately. 

The  following  quotation  from  Keats's  Sleep 
and  Poetry  illustrates  excess  in  the  other  direc- 
tion of  continual  overflow : 

"Could  all  this  be  forgotten?     Yes,  a  schism 
Nurtured  by  foppery  and  barbarism, 


THE    MUSICAL    POWER  175 

Made  great  Apollo  blush  for  this  his  land. 

Men  were  thought  wise  who  could  not  understand 

His  glories:  with  a  puling  infant's  force 

They  swayed  about  upon  a  rocking-horse 

And  thought  it  Pegasus.     Ah,  dismal-souled ! 

The  winds  of  heaven  blew,  the  ocean  rolled 

Its  gathering  waves.     Ye  felt  it  not.     The  blue 

Based  its  eternal  bosom,  and  the  dew 

Of  summer  nights  collected  still  to  make 

The  morning  precious.     Beauty  was  awake! 

Why  were  ye  not  awake  ?     But  ye  were  dead 

To  things  ye  knew  not  of;  were  closely  wed 

To  musty  laws  lined  out  with   wretched  rule 

And  compass  vile." 

Here  the  rhythmical  tinits  are  very  beautiful 
and  varied,  as  is  always  the  case  with  Keats  ;  but 
they  have  so  little  connection  with  the  metrical 
construction  that  they  conceal  it  almost  entirely, 
and  the  reader  will  fall  into  a  loose  iambic  prose 
unless  he  is  very  careful  to  emphasize  the  rhymes 
slightly. 

Milton's  blank-verse  is  written  in  the  overflow 
method  ;  but  Milton's  ear  was  so  delicate  that  he 
will  not  allow  his  metrical  structure  to  be  sub- 
merged. His  inversions  are  so  managed  that  the 
emphasis  which  is  requisite  to  bring  out  the  mean- 
ing seems  also  to  bring  out  the  metrical  form. 
His  rhythms  have  a  peculiar  dignity  and  great 
variety  under  uniformity  of  type. 

Shakespeare  at  first  wrote  blank-verse  in  the 


176  ELEMENTS    OP    LITERARY    CRITICISM 

end-stopt  manner.  Afterwards  he  overlaid  his 
metre  with  rhythmical  ornament.  But  in  either 
method  he  was  acoustically  artistic,  giving  va- 
riety to  the  metrical  rhythm  of  Love's  Labour  's 
Lost,  and  never  allowing  the  beautiful,  loose 
rhythm,  even  in  the  Tempest,  to  disguise  the 
metrical  character  of  his  verse.  The  following 
extracts  show  the  change  in  his  manner,  a  change 
due  partly  to  increased  mastery  and  partly  to  the 
fact  that  all  the  dramatists  adopted  the  overflow 
manner  about  the  end  of  the  sixteenth  century  : 

Princess  : 

"A  time  methiiiks  too  short 
To  make  a  world-without-end  bargain  in. 
No,  no,  my  lord!   your  grace  is   perjured  much, 
Full  of  dear  guiltiness,  and  therefore  this: 
If  for  my  love  (as  there  is  no  such  cause) 
You  will  do  aught,  this  shall  you  do  for  me: 
Your  oath   I  will  not  trust,  but  go  with  speed 
To  some  forlorn  and  naked  hermitage 
Remote  from  all  the  pleasures  of  the  world; 
There  stay  until  the  twelve  celestial  signs 
Have  brought  about  their  annual  reckoning." 

Love's  Labour  's  Lost. 

Lear  : 
"  No,  no,  no,  no  !     Come,  let's  away  to  prison  ; 
We  two  alone  will  sing  like  birds  in  the  cage. 
When  thou  dost  ask  me  blessing,  I'll  kneel  down 
And  ask  of  thee  forgiveness ;    so  we'll  live 
And  pray  and  sing,  and  tell  old  tales  and  laugh 
At  gilded  butterflies,  and  hear  poor  rogues 


THE    MUSICAL    POWER  177 

Talk  of  court  news ;  and  we'll  talk  with  them,  too — 

Who  loses  and  who  gains,  who's  in,  who's  out; 

And  take  upon  us  the  mystery  of  things 

As  if  we  were  God's  spies.     And  we'll  wear  out 

In  prison  packs  and  sects  of  great  ones 

That  ebb  and  flow  by  the   moon." 

King  Lear. 

Which  of  these  methods  is  artistically  prefer- 
able can  hardly  be  determined.  If  the  rhythm  is 
regarded  as  ornamental  it  should  be  constructive, 
should  emphasize  the  metre  as  architectural  orna- 
ments emphasize  the  main  divisions  of  a  building. 
If  the  rhythm  is  regarded  as  expressive  of  emo- 
tions, as  an  element  connected  closely  with  the 
thought,  it  must  not  be  sacrificed  to  metre.  In 
either  case  it  must  be  varied,  for  machine-made 
uniformity  is  unnatural  and  hateful,  varied,  not 
lawlessly,  but  subject  to  the  unwritten  laws  of 
emotional  succession  which  genius  obeys  because 
they  are  part  of  its  nature.  The  Sensitive  Plant, 
one  of  the  most  perfect  structures  in  the  lan- 
guage, exemplifies  the  variation  in  rhythm  with 
which  the  poet  clothes  his  metrical  structure,  as 
does  the  Skylark.  In  Memoriam  exemplifies  a 
combination  of  the  two  methods,  the  lines  being 
sometimes  end-stopt  and  sometimes  overflowing. 
The  rhythms  are  varied  and  of  a  noble  simplic- 
ity, whether  overlapping  the  metre  or  coinciding 
with  it. 

The  musical  element  of  poetry  may  be  made 


lyS  ELEMENTS    OF    LITERARY    CRITICISM 

too  prominent.  Words  are  symbols  of  meaning 
as  well  as  sounds.  If  treated  as  sounds  merely, 
a  structure  may  be  created  of  metrical  and  rhyth- 
mical perfection  which  is  still  not  poetry  in  the 
highest  sense  any  more  than  Mother  Goose's 
melodies,  some  of  which  have  remarkable  struct- 
ural and  acoustic  qualities.  The  "fundamental 
brainwork  "  of  the  artist  is  not  only  putting  words 
into  form,  it  is  putting  thought  into  words.  A 
magnificent  poem  of  j\Ir.  Swinburne's,  the  By  the 
NortJi  Sea — as  musical  a  combination  of  words 
as  can  be  imagined — is  too  musical,  because  it  is 
metrical  and  rhythmical  at  the  expense  of  definite 
imagery.  Music  furnishes  poetry  with  a  part  of 
its  working  tools,  but  not  with  its  material.  In 
the  following  quotations  the  words  are  treated 
almost  as  if  they  were  notes  and  nothing  else. 
Alliteration,  assonance,  rhyme,  metre,  and  rhythm, 
in  admirable  combination,  illustrate  the  limit  of 
the  musical  elements  in  verse  : 

"O  delight  of  the  headland  and  beaches! 

O  desire  of  the  wind  on  the  wold  ! 
More  glad  than  a  man's  when  it  roaches 

That  end  which  it  sought  from  of  old. 
And  the  palm  of  possession  is  dreary 

To  the  sense  that  in  search  of  it  sinned; 
But  nor  satisfied  ever  nor  weary 

Is  ever  the  wind. 

"Miles  and  miles  and  miles  of  desolation, 

Leagues  on  leagues  on  leagues  without  a  change ; 


THE    MUSICAL    POWER  179 

Sign  or  token  of  some  eldest  nation 

Here  would  make  the  st.range  land  not  so  strange; 
Time  forgotten,  yea,  since  time's  creation 

Seem  these  borders  when  the  sea-birds  range." 

The  following  lyric  of  Shelley's,  written  to  a 
young  lady  who  had  sent  him  some  flowers,  shows 
how  a  very  slight  and  not  particularly  just 
thought,  compounded  with  the  musical  elements 
of  verse,  becomes  capable  of  summoning  a  vast 
range  of  indefinite  suggestions  : 

"  Madonna,  wherefore  hast  thou  sent  to  me 
Sweet  basil  and   mignonette. 
Embleming  love  and  health,  which  never  yet 
In  the  same  wreath  might  be? 

"Alas,  and  they  are  wet! 
Is  it  with  thy  kisses  or  thy  tears? 

For  never  rain  or  dew 

Such  fragrance  drew 
From  plant  or  flower;  the  very  doubt  endears 

My  sadness  ever  new, 
The  sighs  I  breathe,  the  tears  I  shed  for  thee." 

The  stanzaic  structure  of  this  is  irregular.  It 
seems  as  if  the  poet  had  intended  to  write  in 
iambic  lines  of  five  and  three  accents  alternately, 
when  he  suddenly  arrested  the  metre  with  the 

"  Alas,  and  they  are  wet ! 
Then  beginning  with  a  four-accent  line, 
"  Is  it  with  thy  kisses  or  thy  tears  ?" 


l8o  ELE^IEXTS   OF    LITERARY   CRITICISM 

he  repeats  with  slight  variation  the  metre  of  the 
first  five  lines,  ending  with  the  prolonged  line, 

"  The  sighs  I  breathe,  the  tears  I  shed  for  thee." 

The  lyric  has  therefore  a  mark  of  spontaneity. 
The  opening  thought  that  love  and  health  are  in- 
compatible is  not  altogether  a  sound  and  true  one  ; 
nevertheless,  there  is  enough  in  the  idea  that  all 
joys  consume  themselves  and  pass,  and  that  strong 
feeling  eats  out  the  heart,  and  that  pain  and  hap- 
piness are  close  together  in  the  emotional  life,  to 
fill  the  lines.  The  feeling  is  egotistic  and  tem- 
porary, but  that  is  as  it  should  be  in  a  lyric 
which  is  the  expression  of  a  mood.  The  musical 
form  is  fitted  to  the  sentiment.  The  lines  are 
full  of  sibilants,  which  sound  like  suppressed  sighs. 
There  are  no  strong,  ringing  words.  The  phrases 
are  short,  as  if  the  speaker  drew  his  breath  in 
pain.  The  rhythm  suits  the  emotion.  The  sounds 
of  the  words  are  beautiful  as  put  together.  No 
other  words  would  produce  exactly  the  same  effect. 
Slight  and  simple  as  they  are,  we  recognize  them 
as  the  product  of  genius,  because  the  form-elements 
are  fitted  to  each  other  and  to  the  sentiment. 

Prose  differs  from  verse  in  that  it  is  not  built 
upon  a  metrical  framework.  The  English  lan- 
guage is  accented  in  prose  utterance  as  much  as 
it  is  reading  verse,  though  with  much  less  uni- 
formity of  stress.  It  is  therefore  easy  to  pick 
out  here  and  there  accent-sequences  which  will 


THE    MUSICAL    POWER  l8l 

make  up  an  iambic  line.  The  combination  of  the 
dactyl  and  trochee  is  very  common  even  in  ordi- 
nary conversation.  "  Metrical  framework,"  in  the 
third  sentence  above,  is  an  example,  as  is  "dactyl 
and  trochee."  Some  Mngle  words,  like  "associ- 
ation," take  on  this  cadence.  If  similar  combina- 
tions occur  too  frequently  or  in  similar  positions 
in  the  sentences,  especially  at  the  end,  they  are 
apt  to  force  a  similarity  of  rhythm  which  is  un- 
natural and  unpleasant.  Let  four  or  even  three 
consecutive  sentences  of  about  the  same  length 
end  with  the  dactylo-trochaic  combination,  and 
we  perceive  at  once  a  monotony  of  cadence  dis- 
agreeable in  the  extreme.  Every  sentence  has 
a  rhythm,  if  it  is  any  way  emphatic,  unless  it  is 
very  short,  because  emphasis  or  emotion  forces 
a  flux  and  reflux — in  fact,  forces  a  rhythm.  But 
in  prose  the  emotion  is  temperate  usually,  and, 
though  varied,  flows  equably.  Two  things  are 
to  be  avoided  :  first,  groups  of  similar  accent- 
sequences — that  is,  fragments  of  metrical  lines  of 
definite  construction  ;  and,  second,  the  recurrence 
of  similar  rhythms,  which  is  a  sequence  of  the 
first  mistake  and  also  of  a  uniformity  of  sentence 
formation.  If  the  prose  is  elevated  or  impas- 
sioned this  rule  is  somewhat  modified,  a  rhythm 
is  not  unnatural.  Still,  the  rule  holds  good,  the 
rhythms  of  prose  must  be  varied,  and  the  man- 
agement of  these  variations  makes  prose  artistic. 
In    argumentative   prose,   rhythm    is   subordi- 


l82  ELEMENTS    OF    LITERARY    CRITICISM 

nated  until  the  point  or  issue  is  well  established. 
The  summing  up  may  properly  have  a  triumphant 
ring.  In  narrative,  rhythm  has  no  place,  it  dis- 
tracts the  attention  from  the  sequence  of  events. 
But  when  the  story  is  told  and  the  feelings  are 
to  be  aroused  the  prose  may  properly  take  on 
some  tone-color  and  subdued  rhythmical  cadence. 
Each  writer  has  his  characteristic  set  of  cadences, 
which  he  is  apt  to  repeat  too  often  when  emo- 
tionally excited.  Hawthorne's  rhythms  are  deli- 
cately beautiful,  but  have  a  note  of  sameness. 
Webster's  rare  rhythmical  passages  are  of  the 
highest  order  of  music,  and  are  in  keeping  with 
the  dignified  and  elevated  tone  of  his  '.bought. 
Burke's  orations  are  in  many  places  marked  by 
noble,  sonorous  cadences,  for  he  was  an  imagina- 
tive reasoner,  and  subject  to  emotional  excite- 
ment. In  fact,  passages  of  rhythmical  prose,  not 
measured  prose  like  the  singsong  of  Dickens,  are 
scattered  through  our  literature,  and  are  the  nat- 
ural expression  of  serious  or  enthusiastic  moods. 
In  Charles  Lamb's  Dream  CJiildrcn  his  fancy 
touches  playfully  the  idea  of  what  his  real  chil- 
dren might  have  been.  Suddenly  the  dream 
children  become  real,  no  longer  figments  of  his 
imagination  but  embodiments  of  that  longing 
for  offspring,  of  that  sense  of  incompleteness  of 
life  which  weighs  on  the  spirit  of  the  childless. 
KX.  once  the  rhythm  of  the  sentences  which  had 
before  been  full  of  the  joyous  impulsiveness  of 


THE    MUSICAL    POWER  1 83 

childhood  rises  to  the  pathetic  dignity  of  a  dirge 
for  lost  hopes  : 

"  Then  I  told  how  for  seven  long  years,  in  hope  some- 
times, and  sometimes  in  despair,  yet  persisting  ever,  I 
courted  the  fair  Alice  \V***n,  and — as  much  as  children 
could  understand,  I  explained  to  them  what  coyness  and 
difficulty  and  denial  meant  in  maidens — when,  suddenly 
turning  to  Alice,  the  soul  of  the  first  Alice  looked  out 
at  her  eyes  with  such  a  reality  of  representment  that  I 
became  in  doubt  which  one  of  them  stood  before  me,  or 
whose  that  bright  hair  was;  and  while  I  stood  gazing, 
both  the  children  gradually  grew  fainter  to  my  view,  re- 
ceding and  still  receding  till  nothing  at  last  but  two 
mournful  features  were  seen  in  the  uttermost  distance, 
which  without  speech  strangely  impressed  upon  me  the 
effects  of  speech  :  *  We  are  not  of  Alice  nor  of  thee, 
nor  are  we  children  at  all.  The  children  of  Alice  call 
Bartram  father.  We  are  nothing  and  less  than  noth- 
ing, and  dreams.  We  are  only  what  might  have  been, 
and  must  wait  upon  the  tedious  shores  of  Lethe  millions 
of  ages  before  we  have  existence  and  a  name.' " 

It  will  be  found  that  the  position  of  no  single 
word  in  that  exquisite  passage — nor,  indeed,  in 
the  entire  essay  can  be  changed  without  injury. 
For  instance,  the  first  sentence  begins, 

"Then  I  told  how  for  seven  long  years,  in  hope  some- 
times, and  sometimes  in  despair." 

Suppose  we  try  to  change  the  place  of  the  adverb 
and  read. 

"  For  seven  long  years,  sometimes  in  hope  and  in  de- 
spair sometimes," 


184  ELEMENTS    OF    LITERARY    CRITICISM 

we  find  that  the  prose  rhythm  is  mangled.  There 
are  no  sentences  in  which  the  rhythm  is  identi- 
cal, though  a  similarity  of  cadence  marks  them 
all  with  solemn  pathos.  It  is  very  evident  the 
essay  is  a  product  of  creative  energy  working 
under  excitement  or  emotion,  and  obeying  in- 
scrutable laws  of  rhythm  which  dictate  the 
means  of  expression  proper  for  that  state  of 
feeling. 

Probably  no  man,  except  Shakespeare,  was 
ever  gifted  with  a  finer  ear  for  the  subtle  harmo- 
nies of  words  than  Milton.  In  the  seventeenth 
century  the  art  of  prose  was  undeveloped,  for 
the  conception  of  the  unity  of  the  sentence  and 
of  the  paragraph  was  confused  by  familiarity 
with  Latin  involutions,  which,  when  carried  over 
into  an  uninflected  language,  are  sometimes  awk- 
ward enough.  The  following  quotation  consists 
of  three  sentences  only,  whereas  it  should  be  di- 
vided into  eight  at  least.  But  no  one  would  deny 
to  them,  especially  to  the  second,  a  grave  and 
noble  music,  nor  that  they  are  full  of  delicate 
assonances  : 

"  Fourthly,  marriage  is  a  covenant,  the  very  being 
whereof  consists  not  in  a  forced  cohabitation  and  coun- 
terfeit perfr)rmance  of  duties,  but  in  unfeigned  love  and 
peace;  and  of  matrimonial  love  no  doubt  but  tiiat  was 
chiefly  meant,  which  by  the  ancient  sages  was  thus  par- 
abled  :  that  Love,  if  he  be  not  twin-born,  yet  hath  a 
brother  wondrous  like  him,  called  Anteros  ;  whom  while 


THE    MUSICAL    POWER  185 

he  seeks  all  about,  his  chance  is  to  meet  with  many  false 
and  figuring  desires,  that  wander  singly  up  and  down 
in  his  likeness;  by  them  in  their  borrowed  garb,  Love, 
though  not  wholly  blind,  as  poets  wrong  him,  yet  having 
but  one  eye,  as  being  born  an  archer  aiming,  and  that 
eye  not  the  quickest  in  this  dark  region  here  below, 
which  is  not  Love's  proper  sphere,  partly  out  of  the  sim- 
plicity and  credulity  which  is  native  to  him,  often  de- 
ceived, embraces  and  consorts  him  with  these  obvious 
and  suborned  striplings,  as  if  they  were  his  mother's 
own  sons;  for  so  he  thinks  them  while  they  subtilely 
keep  themselves  most  on  his  blind  side.  But  after  a 
while,  as  his  manner  is,  when  soaring  up  into  the  high 
tower  of  his  Apogoeum,  above  the  shadow  of  the  earth, 
he  darts  out  the  direct  rays  of  his  most  piercing  eye- 
sight upon  the  impostures  and  trim  disguises  that  were 
used  with  him,  and  discerns  that  this  is  not  his  genuine 
brother,  as  he  imagined  ;  he  has  no  longer  the  power  to 
hold  fellowship  with  such  a  personated  mate  :  for  straight 
his  arrows  loose  their  golden  heads,  and  shed  their  pur- 
ple feathers,  his  silken  braids  untwine  and  slip  their 
knots,  and  that  original  and  fiery  virtue  given  him  by 
fate  all  of  a  sudden  goes  out,  and  leaves  nim  undeified 
and  despoiled  of  all  his  force ;  till,  finding  Anteros  at 
last,  he  kindles  and  repairs  the  almost  faded  ammunition 
of  his  deity  by  the  reflection  of  a  coequal  and  homo- 
geneal  fire.  Thus  mine  author  sung  it  to  me  ;  and,  by 
the  leave  of  those  who  would  be  counted  the  only  grave 
ones,  this  is  no  amatorious  novel  (though,  to  be  wise 
and  skilful  in  these  matters,  men  heretofore  of  greatest 
name  in  virtue  have  esteemed  it  one  of  the  highest  arcs 
that  human  contemplation  circling  upward  can  make 
from  the  globy  sea  whereon  she  stands);   but  this  is  a 


l86  ELEMENTS    OF    LITERARY    CRITICISM 

deep  and  serious  verity,  showing  us  that  love  in  marriage 
cannot  live  nor  subsist  unless  it  be  mutual;  and  when 
love  cannot  be,  there  can  be  left  of  wedlock  nothing 
but  the  empty  husk  of  an  outside  matrimony,  as  unde- 
lightful  and  unpleasing  to  God  as  any  other  kind  of 
hypocrisy." 

The  prose  of  many  of  the  seventeenth-century 
writers  consists  of  long  sentences,  which  have  a 
tendency  to  fall  into  clauses  of  nearly  equal 
length,  and  therefore  approximate  to  a  metrical 
structure.  The  rhythm  is  frequently  very  beau- 
tiful and  appropriate  to  the  thought.  Bishop 
Taylor's  sermons  are  examples  of  the  florid  ec- 
clesiastical style,  overloaded  with  ornament  like 
a  renaissance  building,  but  poetically  conceived 
and  full  of  exuberant  life.  The  following  from 
the  Sermon  on  Marriage  is  not  marked  by  the 
assonances  that  distinguish  the  quotation  from 
Milton.  The  rhythms,  though  delicately  varied, 
are  more  uniform  and  superficial,  and  fit  a  less 
strenuous  thought : 

"  For  there  is  nothing  can  please  a  man  without  love; 
and  if  a  man  be  weary  of  the  wise  discourses  of  the 
Apostles  and  of  the  innocency  of  an  even  and  a  private 
fortune,  or  hates  peace  or  a  fruitful  year,  he  hath  reaped 
thorns  and  thistles  from  the  choicest  flowers  of  para- 
dise, for  nothing  can  sweeten  felicity  itself  but  love ;  but 
when  a  man  dwells  in  love,  then  the  eyes  of  his  wife  are 
fair  as  the  light  of  heaven.  She  is  a  fountain  sealed,  and 
he  can  quench  his  thirst  and  ease  his  cares  and  lay  his 


THE    MUSICAL    POWER  1 87 

sorrow  down  on  her  lap,  and  can  retire  home  to  his 
sanctuary  and  refectory  and  his  gardens  of  sweetness 
and  chaste  refreshments.  No  man  can  tell  but  he  that 
loves  his  children  how  many  delicious  accents  make  a 
man's  heart  dance  in  the  pretty  conversation  of  those 
dear  pledges.  Their  childishness,  their  stammering, 
their  little  angers,  their  innocence,  their  imperfections, 
their  necessities  are  so  many  little  emanations  of  joy 
and  comfort  to  him  that  delights  in  their  persons  and 
society;  but  he  that  loves  not  his  wife  and  children 
feeds  a  lioness  at  home  and  broods  a  nest  of  sorrows, 
and  blessing  itself  cannot  make  him  happy.  So  that  all 
the  commandments  of  God  enjoining  a  man  to  love  his 
wife  are  nothing  but  so  many  necessities  and  capacities 
of  joy.  She  that  is  loved  is  safe,  and  he  that  loves  is 
joyful.  Love  is  a  union  of  all  things  excellent.  It  con- 
tains in  it  proportion  and  satisfaction  and  rest  and  confi- 
dence, and  I  wish  that  this  were  so  much  proceeded  in 
that  the  heathens  themselves  could  not  go  beyond  us 
in  this  virtue  and  its  proper  and  attendant  happiness. 
Tiberius  Macchus  chose  to  die  for  the  safety  of  his  wife, 
and  methinks  for  a  Christian  to  do  so  should  be  no  hard 
thing,  for  many  servants  will  die  for  their  masters  and 
many  gentlemen  will  die  for  their  friend  ;  but  the  exam- 
ples are  not  so  many  of  those  that  are  ready  to  do  it  for 
their  dearest  relatives,  and  yet  some  there  have  been." 

The  difference  between  the  rhythm  of  verse 
and  the  rhythms  of  prose  is  that  the  first  is  sub- 
ject to  a  predetermined  scheme  of  line  and  stanza. 
The  emotional  expression  is  confined  by  law  and 
must  energize  within  limits.  It  can  express  itself 
by  modification  within  those  limits,  and  also  by 


l88  ELEMENTS    OF    LITERARY    CRITICISM 

combining  the  rhythms  of  the  scheme  with  the 
natural  rhythms  of  the  sentence  and  clause.  The 
rhythms  of  prose  are  not  subject  to  any  special 
legislation  ;  nevertheless,  they  are  not  lawless, 
but  are  governed  by  correspondencies  between 
rhythmical  movement  and  flow  of  emotional  en- 
ergy, which  cannot  be  stated  in  a  formula  any 
more  than  can  tones,  gestures,  or  the  effects  of 
certain  musical  chords.  Mr.  Theodore  Watts 
says : 

"The  proseman  and  the  poet  are  both  artists  in  ex- 
pression— the  poet  the  highest,  because  he  gives  us  an 
example  of  freedom  under  a  law  we  can  comprehend. 
The  charm  of  the  inevitable  is  combined  with  the  charm 
of  the  individual.  The  proseman,  from  the  very  fact 
that  he  is  not  sustained  by  a  prescribed  framework,  may 
fall  much  below  the  poet's  average  level  in  force  of 
emotional  language,  and  even  when  he  is  unconsciously 
obedient  to  laws  his  triumph  is  less  than  that  of  the 
poet,  because  he  surmounts  lesser  difliculties." 

Sameness  in  cadence  in  the  prose-writer  is  apt 
to  be  disagreeable,  as  in  Macaulay,  and  in  many 
of  the  prose-writers  of  the  eighteenth  century, 
because  emotion  flows  tumultuously  and  is  never 
monotonous,  unless,  perhaps,  it  be  the  emotion 
of  grief.  Repetitions  of  the  same  cadence  in  a 
poem  are  admissible,  because  they  are  prescribed 
by  the  laws  of  poetry.  At  the  same  time  the 
poet  must  obey  the  larger  laws  of  emotional 
rhythm,  as  well  as  the  rhythmical  laws  of  poetry, 


THE    MUSICAL    POWER  159 

and  must  blend  and  temper  the  two  into  a  unity. 
The  blank-verse  spoken  by  Macbeth,  Lear,  and 
Othello  is  always  verse,  and  subject  to  the  laws  of 
verse,  but,  in  addition,  it  is  full  of  the  nobler  emo- 
tional rhythms  ;  and  in  each  case  it  is  different, 
because  the  emotional  natures  of  these  men  are 
different.  A  lesser  artist,  like  Dryden  or  Milton, 
allows  all  his  characters  to  express  themselves 
in  the  same  rhythm.  It  is  only  the  highest  dra- 
matic sense  that  can  divine  the  language  of  indi- 
vidual passion,  and  put  into  words  the  beatings 
of  the  heart  of  a  man. 

In  our  day  emotion  is  repressed.  Possibly  men 
hate  and  love  and  reverence  and  enjoy  as  fully  as 
ever.  Certainly  they  do  not  allow  themselves  to 
be  carried  away  with  their  feelings  as  they  once 
did.  Toleration  rules.  We  are  organized  into  a 
society  where  the  rebellious  member  finds  com- 
rades only  in  criminals.  Vigorous  expression  is 
indecorous.  Good  form  is  imperative.  There  is 
a  general  impression  that  the  man  who  is  much 
in  earnest  has  not  considered  both  sides  of  the 
question,  and  is  exaggerating  the  importance  of 
the  objects  of  his  desire  or  indignation  ;  that  all 
things  are  ground  out  by  law  in  a  universe  where 
individual  feeling  is  futile  to  delay  or  hurry  the 
inevitable.  We  therefore  have  little  use  for  the 
emotional  rhythms,  except  for  those  that  express 
the  quieter  mental  conditions.  Read  the  verse 
written  nowadays.     It  will  scan,  but  it  invariably 


190  ELEMENTS    OF    LITERARY    CRITICISM 

lacks  the  higher  rhythm.     It  is  correct,  but  it  has 

no  heart-beat.  It  is  like  the  steed  of  the  knight 
that  Heine  speaks  of,  which  was  perfectly  formed 
and  of  an  excellent  color  and  well  groomed  and 
finely  caparisoned — in  all  respects  an  admirable 
horse.     It  had  but  one  fault.     It  was  dead. 

Now,  poetry  is  the  mirror  of  the  age.  Its  high- 
est function  is  not  to  paint  a  picture,  but  to  ex- 
press emotion.  Granting  that  the  great  artist  is 
a  personal  force,  and  that  his  advent  is  a  matter 
of  chance,  the  general  tone  of  the  verse  of  any 
epoch  echoes  the  tone  of  the  time.  If  now  it  is 
largely  unemotional  in  expression,  though  per- 
haps not  more  so  than  it  was  during  the  eigh- 
teenth century,  it  must  be  because  the  age  of 
quick  and  passionate  feeling  has  passed  and  with 
it  the  need  for  emotional  expression  further  than 
the  vague  means  afforded  by  music.  Further- 
more, the  rhythms  of  prose  have  become  for  the 
same  reasons  modified  towards  an  unobtrusive, 
quiet  movement  corresponding  to  the  even  flow 
of  equable  arguments  and  colorless  statement. 
That  this  is  the  effect  of  a  certain  phase  of  civ- 
ilization can  hardly  be  questioned.  Whether  this 
phase  will  last  another  century  depends  on  causes 
altogether  too  deep  for  examination.  Meanwhile 
we  must  go  back  to  our  ancestors  if  we  wish  to 
find  in  rhythm  any  adequate  expression  of  human 
passion  or  to  form  any  conception  of  the  scope 
of  imaginative  literature. 


CHAPTER   VI 

THE    PHRASAL    POWER 

The  term  phrase  usually  means  a  group  ot 
words  that  form  a  part  of  speech.  The  noun 
with  its  adjective  remains  a  noun,  the  verb  with 
its  adverb  remains  a  verb,  in  grammatical  effect. 
But  in  literary  criticism  the  term  phrase  is  taken 
to  mean  something  more  extended  than  in  gram- 
mar. It  means  a  set  of  words  which  may  be  con- 
sidered together  by  reason  of  their  artistic  or 
aesthetic  value  in  combination.  It  covers  simple 
combinations  where  the  adjective  and  noun  are 
welded  together  by  the  imagination,  like  Spenser's 
"  Sea- shouldering  whales,"  and  also  entire  sen- 
tences which  embody  an  image.  A  proverb  or 
an  epigram  is  a  "  phrasis,"  or  saying. 

In  this  view  it  is  not  taking  a  derogatory  view 
of  the  poet's  work  to  call  him  a  "great  phrase- 
maker."  For  what  does  a  poet  really  do — what 
does  he  originate  ?  He  puts  words  in  form,  not 
a  commonplace  or  worn-out  form,  but  a  form 
which  means  something.  He  does  not  make  the 
words  he  uses.     The  people  make  the  words  and 


192  ELEMENTS    OF    LITERARY    CRITICISM 

fill  them  with  a  thousand  subtle  associations  by 
countless  repetitions  and  constant  usage.  The 
poet  groups  these  words  into  new  combinations. 
Words  have  character  as  sounds  and  as  symbols, 
and  it  is  constantly  found  that  they  have  the 
power  of  coalescing  in  groups  of  two  or  more  to 
form  a  new  thought-symbol,  somewhat  as  atoms 
coalesce  to  form  an  organic  molecule.  And  as 
language  is  alive  words  are  continually  changing, 
and  each  age  produces  a  new  set  of  combinations. 
The  immense  power  of  the  phrase  is  evident  to 
any  observer  of  contemporary  history.  Even  the 
"empty  phrase"  has  temporary  weight,  and  the 
"  fallacious  phrase  "  is  temporary  argument.  The 
felicitous  phrase  and  the  great  phrase  are  artis- 
tic units. 

Nor  is  the  poet  a  thought-originator.  Thoughts 
grow  with  the  people.  Everybody  contributes 
something  in  the  way  of  comment  or  modifica- 
tions of  prevailing  notions.  A  very  large  por- 
tion is  futile,  erroneous,  and  weak.  There  is  a 
continual  struggle  of  ideas  going  on,  and  in  time 
the  strongest,  and  in  the  end  the  truest,  survive, 
although  the  foolish  ones  show  for  a  time  great 
fertility  and  power  of  propagation.  Philosophers 
and  thinkers  do  little  more  than  select  and  codify, 
and  by  the  time  they  have  completed  their  task 
their  system  begins  to  become  obsolete.  The 
poet  feels  this  conflict  of  thought,  he  is  conscious 
that  a  new  phase  of  emotional  tendency,  a  new 


THE    PHRASAL    POWER  1 93 

attitude  towards  life,  is  being  taken  up  by  num- 
bers of  men.  He  brings  the  subconscious  gener- 
alization of  the  age  to_  the  surface  and  makes  it 
articulate.  He  invents  the  phrases  which  express 
the  general  tendencies  and  sentiments  of  the 
public.  Browning  and  Shakespeare  embody  in 
poetry  the  thought  of  their  time.  Phrases  are 
the  stuff  of  which  this  embodiment  is  constructed. 
In  this  view  it  is  not  derogatory  to  call  the  poet 
a  phrase-maker  rather  than  a  thinker,  since  the 
phrase  interprets  thought  and  gives  it  carrying 
power,  and  since  the  thought  is  not  the  product 
of  individuals  but  of  many  groups  of  individuals 
who  represent  the  brain  of  the  race. 

It  is  largely  through  songs  and  detached 
phrases  that  poetry  touches  ordinary  life.  The 
poem  as  a  whole,  as  a  work  of  art,  appeals  power- 
fully to  minds  of  a  certain  order,  but  fragments 
of  it  pass  into  the  current  speech  as  proverbs. 
They  add  a  new  element  of  power  to  language, 
and  the  use  of  them  reacts  on  the  mental  flexibil- 
ity of  the  race.  Pope's  verse  is  now  entirely  de- 
tached from  contact  with  the  public  mind,  but 
many  of  Pope's  phrases  are  elements  of  popular 
speech,  and  have  so  far  taken  up  the  character 
of  words  that  they  are  rarely  isolated  by  quota- 
tion-marks. A  new  word  coming  into  the  lan- 
guage in  the  natural  way  is  a  valuable  acquisition 
to  our  mental  equipment,  and  a  new  phrase,  even 
if  slang,  is  hardly  less  so.  Pope  wrote, 
13 


194  ELEMEN'TS    OF    LITERARY    CRITICISM 

"Who  shall  decide,  when  doctors  disagree?" 

and  though  the  question  was  not  new,  "alHtera- 
tion's  artful  aid "  gave  it  a  pungency  not  di- 
minished by  time.  Pope's  phrases  are  not  packed 
with  emotional  intensity.  They  come  under  the 
head  of  the  "dexterous  phrase."  Among  them 
are  ; 

"  Die  of  a  rose  in  aromatic  pain." 

"  Whatever  is,  is  right." 

"The  wisest,  brightest,  meanest  of  mankind." 

"  The  last  and  greatest  art,  the  art  to  blot." 

"  The  feast  of  reason  and  the  flow  of  soul." 

"  Fools  rush  in  where  angels  fear  to  tread." 

"The  world  forgetting,  by  the  world  forgot." 

"  Do  good  by  stealth,  and  blush  to  find  it  fame." 

"  It  is  not  poetr)',  but  prose  run  mad." 

"  At  every  word  a  reputation  dies." 

"Welcome  the  coming,  speed  the  going  guest." 

And  many  other  stock  quotations.  They  have 
the  antithetical,  epigrammatic  flavor  of  social 
wit,  where  the  form  is  more  regarded  than  the 
substance.  They  lack  the  far  higher  quality  of 
humor.  But  these  and  many  others  of  Pope's 
phrases  have  made  a  hit.  Not  only  are  they 
pretty  securely  lodged  in  the  memory  of  the  read- 


THE    PHRASAL    POWER  I95 

ing  world,  but  they  have  filtered  down  to  the 
general  public  alongside  of  Campbell's 

"  Distance  lends  enchantment  to  the  view," 

Sterne's 

"God  tempers  the  wind  to  the  shorn  lamb," 

and  Campbell's 

"  Like  angel  visits,  few  and  far  between." 

It  is  a  little  odd  that  Campbell's  form  of  this 
phrase — "few  and  far  between" — should  be  the 
popular  one  in  preference  to  the  earlier  form 
from  Blair's  Grave,  "short  and  far  between." 
"  Short  and  far  between  "  would  seem  to  be  the 
more  logical  form,  for  if  they  were  "  few,"  they 
must  necessarily  be  "far  between,"  unless  of  in- 
ordinate length,  but  "  alliteration's  artful  aid  " 
seems  to  have  floated  Campbell's  phrase. 

We  have  already  spoken  of  the  musical  quality 
of  words,  and  we  shall  hereafter  speak  of  their 
descriptive  or  pictorial  quality.  Now,  a  phrase 
may  be  musical  or  it  may  be  picturesque,  but  in 
considering  the  phrasal  quality  attention  should 
be  restricted  to  the  fact  that  a  set  of  words  in 
combination  have  sometimes  an  intellectual  effect 
far  greater  than  could  be  foreseen  from  an  exami- 
nation of  them  separately,  and  greater  than  they 
logically  should  have.  They  reinforce  each  other 
by  juxtaposition,  so  as  to  bring  out  a  novel  and 


ig6  RLEMENTS    OP    LITERARY    CRITICISM 

complex  thought.  In  the  higher  manifestation 
of  the  phrase  power  it  seems  as  if  the  writer  dis- 
covered novel  combinations  by  clairvoyance,  by 
an  illumination  from  a  central  light  in  him,  pen- 
etrating the  cloud  of  ideas  that  surrounds  every 
soul.  In  its  lower  manifestations  the  writer  man- 
ufactures his  phrases  consciously,  puts  words  to- 
gether and  tries  them,  and  perhaps  hits  on  some- 
thing literary  and  pleasing.  In  both  cases  it  is  to 
the  relation  of  compounded  words  to  the  thought 
rather  than  to  their  relation  to  musical  sound 
or  to  pictorial  effect  that  the  expression  *'  phra- 
sal power  "  is  meant  to  refer.  Nevertheless,  the 
expressions  "  musical  phrase "  or  "  descriptive 
phrase  "  are  not  illegitimate,  but  refer  to  a  dif- 
ferent range  of  qualities. 

With  this  restriction  we  may  grade  phrases  as  : 
First,  the  dexterous  phrase  —  witty,  neat,  epi- 
grammatical,  workmanlike.  Pope's  phrases,  al- 
ready quoted,  would  fall  under  this  head.  Sec- 
ond, the  felicitous  phrase,  which  has  some  of  the 
quality  of  the  inevitableness — that  is,  the  phrase 
hits  a  certain  idea  so  justly  that  the  two  seem  to 
have  been  made  for  each  other,  and  to  be  inca- 
pable of  separate  existence  ;  but  the  idea  is  one 
of  sweetness  rather  than  strength,  and  the  phrase 
has  grace  rather  than  power.  Third,  the  dynam- 
ic phrase,  or  the  great  phrase,  which  embodies 
a  profound  and  suggestive  thought  with  a  certain 
ruggedness  and  carelessness,  and  with  more  of 


THE    PHRASAL    POWER  1 97 

the  quality  of  inevitableness  or  absoluteness,  as 
if  it  were  a  natural  formation.  The  phrase  then 
satisfies  not  only  our  aL^sthetic  but  our  broader 
ethical  perceptions.  It  seems  to  give  a  novel 
aspect  of  universal  truth — a  glimpse  of  knowledge 
which  we  could  obtain  in  no  other  way.  It  com- 
pletes and  sums  up  a  thousand  forgotten  ar- 
guments. The  "dynamic  phrase"  reveals,  the 
"felicitous  phrase"  illuminates,  the  "dexterous 
phrase"  decorates  the  thought.  Pope  may  be 
taken  as  an  example  of  the  maker  of  the  "  dexter- 
ous phrase,"  Gray  of  the  "  felicitous  phrase,"  and 
Shakespeare,  who  throws  off  dexterous  phrases 
and  felicitous  phrases  with  careless  ease,  now 
and  then  strikes  out  a  dynamic  phrase  which 
has  the  electrical  energy  of  all  nature  behind  it. 
Emerson  is  the  only  American  who  has  origi- 
nated a  dynamic  phrase.  James  is  the  most  skil- 
ful manipulator  of  the  dexterous  phrase.  This 
outline  classification  of  phrase  -  quality  must  be 
taken  with  the  reservation  that  phrases  partake 
more  or  less  of  all  these  characters,  just  as  men 
partake  in  different  proportions  of  the  qualities 
of  noble  strength,  sweetness,  and  mundane  skill, 
and  are  never  perfect  examples  of  any  one. 

Gray  is  as  good  an  example  as  any  one  of  the 
creators  of  the  felicitous  phrase.  Goldsmith  par- 
takes of  this  quality,  which  does  not  stir  so  much 
as  delight.  The  Elegy  moves  us  very  gently. 
Its  phrases,  its  music,  its  philosophy,  are  all  in 


198  ELEMENTS    OF    LITERARY    CRITICISM 

perfect  accord.  The  transitoriness  of  the  indi- 
vidual and  the  vanity  of  human  achievement  are 
expressed  in  felicitous  phrases  set  to  "slow  mu- 
sic." The  phrases  embody  an  imagery  of  the 
same  tone  as  the  thought  and  the  metric  move- 
ment. Tliis  balance  of  elements  is  an  artistic 
quality  of  a  high  order,  and  the  poem  will  always 
be  a  favorite,  for  everybody  can  apprehend  all 
parts  of  it.  These  phrases,  among  others,  are 
perfect  in  their  kind  : 

"The  short  and  simple  annals  of  the  poor." 

"  The  paths  of  glory  lead  but  to  the  grave." 

"Can  flattery  soothe  the  dull,  cold  ear  of  Death?" 

"Full  many  a  flower  is  born  to  blush  unseen." 

"  Full  many  a  gem  of  purest  ray  serene." 

"  Far  from  the  madding  crowd's  ignoble  strife." 

"  The  noiseless  tenor  of  their  way." 

There  is  more  reach  and  power  in  the  Scottish 
phrase, 

"  I'm  wearing  awa'  to  the  land  o'  the  leal," 

than  in  any  of  these,  but  they  are  all  very  beau- 
tiful phrases,  although  there  is  a  certain  resigna- 
tion and  hopelessness  expressed  in  most  of  them, 
which,  as  individual  mortals,  we  must  all  feel,  but 
which,  as  members  of  a  race  that  is  enduring  and 
developing,  and  is,  at  least,  the  highest  manifes- 


THE    PHRASAL    POWER  I99 

tation  of  life  presented  to  us,  we  ought  not  to 
dwell  on.  But  in  criticising  phrases  we  have  no 
right  to  find  fault  with  the  tone  of  thought  as 
reflected  in  the  phrase  construction.  In  Gray's 
Elegy  this  reflection  is  absolutely  perfect. 

Emerson  is  a  great  phrase-maker.  Usually  he 
does  not  go  much  beyond  the  felicitous  phrase, 
but  sometimes  he  hits  an  expression  so  just  and 
suggestive  that  it  is  taken  up  as  a  familiar  quo- 
tation, becomes  as  it  were  a  new  word,  a  medium 
of  communication  between  soul  and  soul,  forever 
after.  Such  expressions  we  find  repeated  every- 
where, they  come  to  our  minds  on  certain  occa- 
sions as  having  an  absolute  fitness  for  the  time 
and  place. 

To  quote  some  of  the  best  known,  he  says  of 
those  about  the  fireplace,  during  the  snow-storm, 
that  they  are — 

"  Enclosed 
In  a  tumultuous  privacy  of  storm." 

Of  the  snow-bird,  he  says — 

"  Here  was  this  atom  in  full  breath, 
Hurling  defiance  at  vast  Death." 

An  ordinary  writer  would  have  used  the  ad- 
jective "  chill "  instead  of  "  vast,"  to  contrast  the 
cheery  life  of  the  bird  with  the  stillness  of  the 
wintry  woods,  but  "vast"  is  a  far  better  adjec- 
tive, for  it  contrasts  the  vigorous,  infinitesimal 


200  ELEMENTS   OF    LITERARY    CRITICISM 

life  of  the  snow-bird  with  the  all-prevailing,  vague 
presence  of  Death,  suggested  by  winter.  The  be- 
numbing influence  of  cold  has  already  been  al- 
luded to  in  the  earlier  lines  of  the  poem,  and 
"  vast "  brings  out  the  greatness  of  the  force 
counter  to  life. 

Many  of  Emerson's  phrases,  like — 

"  Here  once  the  embattled  farmers  stood, 
And  fired  the  shot  heard  round  the  world," 

or, 

"  They  builded  better  than  they  knew," 

have  been  repeated  so  often  that  we  hesitate  to 
use  them.  This  should  not  be,  for  phrases  like 
those  cannot  become  hackneyed.  They  have  an 
absolute  quality.  They  present  a  phase  of  thought 
that  no  other  words  can,  and  we  might  as  reason- 
ably try  to  avoid  some  of  the  idioms  we  have  in- 
herited from  the  Pilgrim  fathers.  "  Good  use  " 
does  not  apply  to  them.  They  are  the  elements 
of  literary  speech. 

But  in  many  cases  Emerson's  phrases  are  of  a 
lower  class.  They  come  under  the  head  of  the 
"  dexterous  phrase,"  neat,  apposite,  original,  but 
lacking  the  inevitable  quality,  giving  pleasure, 
perhaps  even  delight,  but  not  adding  perma- 
nently to  the  stock  of  literary  material.  Some- 
times they  come  perilously  near  to  being  artificial 
phrases  or  forced   phrases — phrases  for  phrases' 


THE    PHRASAL    POWER  20I 

sake — the  making  of  which  is  the  bane  of  so  many 
writers.  Nevertheless,  Emerson  is  a  great  phrase- 
maker,  and  this,  quite  as  much  as  his  fairness  and 
catholicity  of  thought,  gives  him  his  place,  per- 
manent and  assured,  in  the  annals  of  litera- 
ture. 

Shakespeare's  power  as  a  phrase-maker  is  no 
less  great  than  his  powers  of  a  higher  quality. 
No  one  has  contributed  more  expressions  that 
are  as  "familiar  in  our  mouths  as  household 
words."  As  his  phrases  are  adapted  to  his  char- 
acters, many  of  them  have  the  idiomatic  force  of 
folk-proverbs.  His  more  poetic  and  philosophi- 
cal phrases  are  woven  naturally  into  the  conver- 
sation of  Prospero,  Hamlet,  Macbeth,  and  others 
of  his  characters.  In  the  Sonnets,  where  he  is 
not  speaking  in  an  assumed  character,  though 
possibly  under  the  domination  of  an  assumed — it 
may  be  a  remembered  —  mood,  occur  the  won- 
derful phrases  : 

"A  love  builded  far  from  accident." 

"Poor  soul,  the  centre  of  my  sinful  earth." 

"The  expense  of  spirit  in  a  waste  of  shame   is  lust  in 
action." 

"The  prophetic  soul  of  the  wide  world,  dreaming  on 
things  to  come." 

"  Bare  ruined  choirs  where  late  the  sweet  birds  sang." 

"The  sessions  of  sweet,  silent  thought." 


202  ELEMENTS    OF    LITERARY    CRITICISM 

And  many  others  of  truth  and  force  compacted 
with  the  structure  of  his  rhyme.  What  an  ad- 
mirable expression  is  that  of  Othello's  where  he 
speaks  of  himself  as  one  who  "being  wrought," 
is  "perplexed  in  the  extreme."  The  word  "  ex- 
treme" sounds  like  a  cry  of  mental  anguish.  In- 
deed, the  entire  last  act  of  Othello  is  wonderful 
for  the  power  of  the  phrases,  no  less  than  for  its 
dramatic,  emotional  intensity. 

It  will  be  better  to  leave  Shakespeare,  in  whom 
all  the  powers  are  conjoined,  and  take  up  some 
writers  in  whom  the  phrase-making  power  is  more 
isolated  and  therefore  more  in  evidence.  But 
there  is  one  peculiarity  about  Shakespeare's  com- 
pound adjectives  or  double  adjectives,  which, 
though  not  an  important  matter,  is  worth  speci- 
fying. He  nearly  always  joins  a  concrete  adjec- 
tive with  one  signifying  some  abstract  quality, 
so  that  the  two  reinforce  each  other.     Thus — 

"  The  ponderous  and  marble  jaws  "  (of  the  tomb). 

"The  lofty  and  shrill- sounding  throat"  (of  the  cock). 

"The  thin  and  wholesome  blood." 

"  Wild  and  whirling  words." 

"This  dread  and  black  complexion." 

"The  sear,  the  yellow  leaf." 

"  Some  sweet  oblivious  antidote." 

"  A  nipping  and  an  eager  air." 


THE    PHRASAL    POWER  203 

"  The  bloody  and  invisible  hand." 

"A  robustious  periwig-pated  fellow." 

"The   chaste  and  unsmirched  brow." 

"The  kind,  life-rendering  pelican." 

"  A  slippery  and  subtle  knave." 

"Her  fair  and  unpolluted  flesh." 

"  The  wealthy,  curled  darlings." 

"  A  malignant  and  a  turbaned  Turk." 

"Sulphurous  and  tormenting  flames." 

"  Sulphurous  and  thought-executing  fires." 

"  In  the  most  terrible  and  nimble  stroke." 

"The  extravagant  and  erring  spirit." 

This  list  might  be  indefinitely  increased.  Of 
course  it  is  not  a  mannerism,  for  an  equal  num- 
ber of  the  opposite  usage  could  be  gathered.  It 
is  worth  examining  because  one  of  the  adjectives 
calls  up  a  concrete  image  and  the  other  adds  some 
abstract  quality,  and  because  the  two  adjectives 
heighten  each  other  and  form  a  unified  and  strik- 
ing characterization.  It  is  quite  possible  that 
some  of  Shakespeare's  contemporaries  used  the 
same  method. 

Milton's  adjectives  are  generally  compounded 
in  the  classic  fashion,  like  the  "  rosy -fingered 
Aurora,"  "thy  amber-dropping  hair,"  "  the  rushy- 
fringed  bank,"  "tinsel-slippered  feet,"  "the  coral- 


204  ELEMENTS    OF    LITERARY    CRITICISM 

paven  bed  "  (of  the  river),  "  earth-shaking  Nep- 
tune," "vermeil -tinctured  lip,"  "love -darting 
eyes."  These  are  Homeric  echoes.  The  two  words, 
frequently  an  adjective  and  a  noun,  are  com- 
pounded into  one,  sometimes  with  beautiful  effect. 
Shakespeare's  double  epithets  are  usually  made 
of  two  adjectives,  by  the  conjunction  "and,"  not 
by  the  hyphen.  More  amplitude  of  characteriza- 
tion seems  to  flow  from  the  double  adjective  than 
from  the  compound  adjective,  though,  possibly,  no 
more  concrete  picturesqueness.  Milton's  "glassy, 
cool,  translucent  wave  "  is  a  very  beautiful  group- 
ing of  attributes,  but  they  are  all  physical,  where- 
as one  of  the  adjectives  used  by  Shakespeare  at- 
tributes some  moral  quality  to  the  object.  Of 
this  double  adjective  but  few  instances  are  found 
in  Milton.     He  says, 

"  An  old  and  haughty  nation." 

"The  forlorn  and  wandering  passenger." 

"  Ripe  and  frolic  of  his  full-grown  age." 

"  Fond,  intemperate  thirst." 

"  The  baffling  eastern  scout,  the  morn." 

"The  light,  fantastic  toe." 

"  Majestic,  unaffected  style." 

In  most  of  these  the  object  is  doubly  described, 
but  from  one  side  only,  whereas  the  instances 
from  Shakespeare  give  us  a  glimpse  of  the  object 


THE    PHRASAL    POWER  205 

from  contrasted  points  of  view.  Milton's  "  for- 
lorn and  wandering  passenger  "  is  the  only  one 
that  has  a  Shakespearian  sound.  There  is  noth- 
ing so  picturesque  as  Othello's  "  A  malignant  and 
a  turbaned  Turk,"  though  "dim,  religious  light" 
is  as  powerful. 

In  phrase-making,  however,  Milton  shows  the 
readiness  and  vividness  of  the  great  writer.  In 
his  verse  he  seems  to  have  been  largely  preoccu- 
pied with  the  musical  quality.  Still,  many  strik- 
ing phrases  are  scattered  over  his  pages,  such  as : 

"  Confusion  worse  confounded." 

'•  Darkness  visible." 

"The  silver  lining  of  the  cloud." 

"  Music  through   the   empty  vaulted  night,  at  every 
fall    smoothing    the    raven    down   of    darkness    till    it 
smiled." 
"  Shakespeare,  dear  son  of  memory,  great  heir  of  fame." 

"  Notes  with  many  a  winding  bout  of  sweetness  long 
drawn  out." 

"The  blind  Fury  with  the  abhorred  shears." 
"  New  Presbyter  is  but  old   Priest  writ  large." 

But  in  his  prose,  when,  as  was  the  custom  in 
his  day,  no  attention  was  paid  to  sentence  con- 
struction, Milton's  power  of  incisive  expression 
has  free  play.  His  pamphlets  on  divorce  show 
his  command   over  this  minor  form   of   literary 


zoo  ELEMENTS    OF    LITERARY   CRITICISM 

power  very  decidedly,  and  no  doubt  his  contro- 
versy against  Salmasius  would  have  been  marked 
by  the  same  vigorous  speech-forms  had  it  been 
written  in  a  living  tongue  instead  of  ponderous 
book -Latin.  He  characterizes  marriage  where 
radical  incompatibility  of  temper  is  discovered  as: 

"  The  pining  of  a  sad  spirit,  wedded  to  loneliness." 

"  He   finds   himself  fast  to  an   uncomplying  discord  of 
nature." 

"  Foiling  and   profaning  that  mystery  of  joy  and  union 
with  a  polluting  sadness  and  perpetual  distemper." 

And  with  many  other  phrases  of  equal  point  and 
vigor. 

The  phrasing  of  Sir  Thomas  Browne,  Milton's 
contemporary,  is  characterized  by  literary  inge- 
nuity and  a  certain  quaint  affectation  that  has 
an  original  flavor  and  a  charm  of  its  own,  though 
his  great  attraction  lies  in  the  rhythm  of  his  sen- 
tences and  the  fine  quality  of  his  thought.  He, 
too,  is  disfigured  by  writing  in  an  artificial  lan- 
guage which,  however,  like  the  stiff  ruff  and  long 
waist  of  the  period,  could  not  altogether  hide  nat- 
ural grace  and  symmetry.     He  says: 

"  Look  not  for  whales  in  the  Euxine  or  expect  great 
matters  where  they  are  not  to  be  found.  Seek  not  for 
profundity  in  shallowness,  or  fertility  in  a  wilderness. 
Place  not  the  expectations  of  great  happiness  here  be- 
low, or  think  to  find  heaven  on  earth ;  wherein  we  must 


THE    PHRASAL    POWER  207 

be  content  with  embryon  felicities  and  fruitions  of  doubt- 
ful faces :  for  the  circle  of  our  felicities  makes  but  short 
arches.  In  every  clime  we  are  in  a  periscian  state;  and 
with  our  light  our  shadow  and  darkness  walk  about  us. 
Our  contentments  stand  upon  the  top  of  pyramids, 
ready  to  fall  off,  and  the  insecurity  of  their  enjoyments 
abrupteth  our  tranquilities.  What  we  magnify  is  mag- 
nificent, but  like  to  the  Colossus,  noble  without,  stuft 
with  rubbage  and  coarse  metal  within.  Even  the  sun, 
whose  glorious  outside  we  behold,  may  have  dark  and 
smoky  entrails.  In  vain  we  admire  the  lustre  of  any- 
thing seen  ;  that  which  is  truly  inglorious  is  invisible." — 
Christian  Morals. 

Charles  Lamb  is  a  maker  of  the  dexterous 
phrase.  His  genuine  kindness  of  heart,  his  fond- 
ness for  the  recent  past  surviving  in  out-of-the- 
way  corners,  or  in  speech  or  prejudice  or  manner 
or  dress,  and  his  excellent  judgment  of  the  dra- 
matic art,  are  the  solid  qualities  that  give  value 
to  his  literary  work.  As  a  literary  workman  his 
power  of  felicitous  phrase-making  sometimes  car- 
ries him  beyond  the  limits  of  well-balanced  art. 
His  head  is  full  of  the  quaint  phrases  of  the  seven- 
teenth century  and  he  can  hardly  forego  availing 
himself  of  every  possible  opening  for  quoting  a 
phrase  having  the  flavor  of  antiquity.  His  own 
phrases  have  a  taint  of  artificiality,  even  when 
most  felicitous.  As  a  rule,  affectation  is  unpleas- 
ant and  tiresome,  but  we  sometimes  notice  a  sur- 
charging of  manner  resulting  from  enthusiastic 


2o8  ELEMENTS    OP    LITERARY    CRITICISM 

study  of  some  literary  or  artistic  subject  —  an 
unconscious  imitation  of  the  style  and  manner 
of  thought  of  an  epoch  in  which  the  student  has 
lived  for  years  in  imagination,  which  can  hardly 
be  called  affectation  because  it  is  unconscious. 
This  gives  a  pleasant  archaic  flavor  to  much  of 
Lamb's  phrasing. 

"  Reader,  would 'st  thou  know  what  true  peace  and 
quiet  mean  ?  would'st  thou  find  a  refuge  from  the  noises 
and  clamors  of  the  multitude.-*  would'st  thou  enjoy  at 
once  solitude  and  society.?  would'st  thou  possess  the 
depth  of  thine  own  spirit  in  stillness,  without  being  shut 
out  from  the  consolatory  faces  of  the  species.''  would'st 
thou  be  alone,  yet  accompanied  ;  solitary  yet  not  deso- 
late ;  singular  yet  not  without  some  one  to  keep  thee  in 
countenance — a  unit  in  aggregate;  a  simple  in  compo- 
site.''    Come  with  me  into  a  Quaker's  meeting. 

"  Dost  thou  love  silence  deep  as  that  '  before  the  wnnds 
were  made,'  go  not  out  into  the  wilderness,  descend  not 
into  the  profundities  of  the  earth,  shut  not  up  thy  case- 
ments, pour  not  wax  into  the  little  cells  of  thy  ears  wnth 
littje-faithed,  self- mistrusting  Ulysses;  retire  with  me 
into  a  Quaker's  meeting. 

"  What  is  the  stillness  of  the  desert  compared  with  this 
place  ?  What  the  uncommunicating  muteness  of  fishes  ? 
Here  the  goddess  reigns  and  revels.  '  Boreas  and  Cesias 
and  Argestis  loud  '  do  not,  with  their  inter-confounding 
uproars,  more  augment  the  brawl,  nor  the  waves  of  the 
blown  Baltic  with  their  clubbed  sounds,  than  their  oppo- 
site. '  Silence,  her  sacred  self,'  is  multiplied  and  rendered 
more  intense  by  numbers  and  by  sympathy.     She.  too, 


THE    PHRASAL    POWER  209 

hath  her  deeps  that  call  unto  deeps.  Negation  itself 
hath  a  positive  more,  and  less,  and  cased  eyes  would 
seem  to  obscure  the  great  obscurity  of  midnight. 

"  The  Abbey  Church  of  Westminster  hath  nothing  so 
solemn,  so  spirit-soothing  as  the  naked  walls  and  benches 
of  a  Quaker's  meeting.     Here  are  no  tombs,  inscriptions, 

or 

"'Sands,  ignoble  things 
Dropt  from  tlie  ruined  sides  of  Kings.' 

But  here  is  something  which  throws  Antiquity  herself 
into  the  foreground — Silence,  eldest  of  things — language 
of  old  Night — primitive  discourser — to  which  the  inso- 
lent decays  of  mouldering  grandeur  have  arrived  by  a 
violent  and,  as  we  may  say,  unnatural  progression." — 
Essays  of  El /a. 

Wordsworth  had  the  power  of  striking  out 
some  great  phrases.  His  narrow  self-concentra- 
tion and  artistic  wilfulness  were  outweighed  by 
the  truth  and  spirituality  of  his  conception  of 
man's  intimate  relation  to  external  nature,  and 
the  unalloyed  delight  he  felt  in  the  panorama  of 
the  out-door  world.  But  we  are  now  speaking  of 
workmanship  in  details,  not  of  philosophical  atti- 
tude nor  even  of  constructive  power.  Words- 
worth's great  phrases  are  rare.  They  have  the 
musical  quality  and  the  quality  of  limpidity, 
and  of  fitting  into  their  places  in  the  poem. 
They  are  rarely  disfigured  by  inversions,  or, 
at  least,  if  they  are  the  inversions  are  natural 
ones. 

■'4 


210  ELEMENTS    OF    LITERARY    CRITICISM 

When  he  says  of  the  girl  growing  up  in  inti- 
mate communion  with  nature  : 

"Hers  shall  be  the  breathing  balm 
And  hers  the  silence  and  the  calm 
Of  mute,  insensate  things," 

or, 

"  She  shall  lean  her  ear 
In  many  a  secret  place, 
Where  rivulets  dance  their  wayward  round, 
And  beauty,  born  of  murmuring  sound, 
Shall  pass  into  her  face," 

we  recognize  the  justness  of  the  thought  and  the 
deHcacy  of  the  expression.  If  we  can  drop  (>ur 
sense  of  the  melody  of  the  phrases  for  the  mo- 
ment, we  see  that  they  have  great  descriptive 
power  in  spite  of  their  simplicity  ;  perhaps,  in- 
deed, on  account  of  their  simplicity.  Again  he 
says  of  the  field-song  of  the  Highland  girl : 

"Such  thrilling  voice  was  never  heard 
In  spring-time  from  the  cuckoo-bird, 
Breaking  the  silence  of  the  seas 
Among  the  farthest  Hebrides. 
Perhaps  the  plaintive  numbers  flow 
For  old,  unhappy  far-off  things, 
And  battles  long  ago." 

This  does  not  illustrate  the  power  of  epithet — 
Wordsworth's  skill  does  not  lie  in  that  direction 
— but  it  gives  an  impression  of  the  melancholy 


THE    PHRASAL    POWER  211 

character  of  Celtic  song  and  its  peculiar  afifinity 
for  lonely  nature.  It  is  beautiful  phrasing,  for 
sound  and  imagery  and  sentiment  harmonize. 
The  following  well  -  worn  quotations  show  that 
Wordsworth  sometimes  came  very  near  to  strik- 
ing out  a  dynamic  phrase  : 

"The  beauty  of  promise,  that  which  sets 
The  budding  rose  above  the  rose  full  grown," 

Of  childhood  he  says  : 

"  For  thought  of  our  past  years  in  me  doth  breed 
Perpetual  benediction." 

" A  creature 
Moving  about  in  worlds  not  realized." 

"  Shadowy  recollections, 
Which,  be  they  what  they  may, 
Are  yet  the  fountain-light  of  all  our  day: 
Are  yet  a  master-light  of  all  our  seeing." 

"Our  noisy  years  seem   moments  in  the  being 
Of  the  eternal  silence." 

There  is  a  marked  lack  of  warmth,  color,  and 
passion  in  Wordsworth's  poetry.  His  was  a  Puri- 
tanic enthusiasm  for  virtue  and  nature  and  hu- 
manity. He  has  the  poetic  earnestness  but  not 
the  poetic  glow.  In  consequence  he  falls  far  be- 
low Milton  and  Shakespeare  in  the  richness  of 
his  adjectives,  and  below  Keats,  whose  imagina- 
tion was  more  sensuous  and  luxuriant,  and  who 
apparently  took  more  delight  in  color  in  nature 


2  12  ELEMENTS    OF    LITERARY    CRITICISM 

than  Wordsworth  did,  though  perhaps  no  more 
in  form  and  light  and  shade.  In  fact,  the  passion 
for  beauty  of  color  and  rich  texture  seems  to 
be  quite  distinct  from  the  love  of  beauty  of  out- 
line and  motion,  though  both  may  coexist  in  the 
same  person  in  almost  any  proportions.  It  would 
seem,  too,  as  if  the  austere  love  of  moral  truth 
were  more  harmonious  with  the  latter  than  with 
the  former.  Light,  rather  than  color,  character- 
izes the  passion  for  righteousness,  which  is  the 
noblest  characteristic  of  man.  In  Wordsworth 
we  see  an  insensibility  to  one  phase  of  the  beau- 
tiful combined  with  the  austere  self-esteem  and 
rigid  ethics  of  the  Puritan,  And  these  charac- 
teristics can  be  traced  in  the  minutiae  of  his 
phrasing.  Keats  is  the  best  instance  of  poetic 
imagination  of  the  more  sensuous  and  luxuriant 
kind.  Though  he  died  at  the  age  of  twenty-five, 
he  was  so  thoroughly  an  artist  that  his  work  is 
characteristic  of  his  mind.  He  says  that  he 
"  looked  upon  fine  phrases  like  a  lover,"  and  in 
his  earliest  publications  we  find  the  instinct  for 
color  and  luxuriance  in  such  characterizations  as: 
"the  lush  laburnum  "and  the  "ardent  marigolds," 
which  last  reminds  us  of  Milton's  "glowing  violet." 
His  love  of  the  beautiful  is  shown  in  phrases  like — 

"  Sweet  peas  on  tiptoe  for  a  flight, 
With  wings  of  gentle  flush  o'er  delicate  white." 

"  The  chequered  shadows." 


THE    PHRASAL    POWER  213 

"  The  swarms  of  minnows 
Swaying  their  wavy  bodies  against  the  streams 
To  taste  the  luxury  of  sunny  beams 
Tempered  with  coohiess." 

"The  bloomy  grapes  laughing  from  green  attire." 

"A  butterfly  with  golden  wings  broad-parted." 

These  citations  might  be  multiplied  to  show 
that  Keats  in  his  phrasing  gives  tis  not  only  the 
shapes  but  the  colors  of  things,  and  that  his 
world-vision  is  of  a  luxuriant  concreteness,  flushed 
with  warm  and  rosy  color,  like  the  world-vision 
of  the  young  Shakespeare,  the  Shakespeare  of 
Romeo  and  Juliet.  They  cause  us  to  believe  that 
no  certain  answer  can  be  given  to  the  question, 
"  Did  literature  lose  most  by  the  burial  of  Milton 
during  the  best  j^ears  of  his  life  in  controversial 
politics  or  by  the  death  of  John  Keats  before  the 
best  years  of  his  life  had  come  ?" 

Let  us  briefly  consider  two  of  our  modern  poets 
with  reference  to  this  question  of  the  descriptive 
phrase,  Tennyson  and  Browning.  This,  I  need 
not  repeat,  is  apart  from  the  marked  musical  and 
lyrical  power  of  the  two  great  artists,  apart,  too, 
from  the  marked  ability  of  Browning  of  putting 
into  verse  certain  defiant,  doubting,  and  ques- 
tioning moods  of  the  modern  spirit.  Browning 
has  not  struck  out  many  great  phrases.  His 
thought  is  linked  and  involved  so  that  a  sentence 
or  two  must  be  quoted.     He  is  a  master  of  de- 


214  ELEMENTS   OP   LITERARY   CRITICISM 

scription,  but  one  must  read  a  passage  like  the 
second  part  of  Waring  or  the  whole  of  CJiilde 
Roland  or  A  Granunarian' s  Funeral  in  order  to 
comprehend  one  of  his  pictures.  He  does  not 
flash  things  on  his  readers  in  a  phrase  ;  but  in 
manipulating  the  phrase  so  as  to  bring  in  the 
rhyme  and  yet  illuminate  the  thought  he  is  un- 
rivalled. His  rhymes  are  often  very  odd  and  un- 
expected, but  they  never  seem  forced.  This  is 
especially  true  of  his  double  rhymes,  a  line  end- 
ing apt  in  other  hands  to  degenerate  into  affecta- 
tion. Browning  manipulates  the  phrase  so  as  to 
bring  in  the  rhyme  ending  in  a  novel  manner. 
He  is  released  by  the  constitution  of  his  mind 
from  another  restraint — that  is,  the  necessity  of 
making  himself  readily  intelligible — and  in  con- 
sequence can  exhaust  his  mental  energy  on  the 
problem  of  getting  his  phrase  into  his  line.  His 
phrasing  has  therefore  great  force  and  manliness 
because  he  does  not  stop  to  make  it  neat.  In  A 
Graniviarian's  Funeral,  a  poem  far  beyond  the 
powers  of  any  man  now  living,  the  phrasing  is 
massive  and  vigorous  throughout,  and  seems  un- 
hampered by  the  very  difficult  metre.  There  are, 
however,  no  great  quotable  phrases — the  poem  is 
too  compact.  Each  part  belongs  to  the  whole, 
nothing  can  be  detached  like  the  frieze  from  the 
Parthenon  and  set  up  to  be  admired  by  itself  or 
copied  and  hung  up  on  household  walls.  This 
poem  illustrates  his  marvellous  power  of  putting 


THE    PHRASAL    POWER  215 

phrases  in  verse  form.  Every  second  line  of  the 
one  hundred  and  fifty  is  connected  with  the 
double  rhyme.  In  one  place  I  thought  at  one 
time  that  he  had  used  a  word  simply  because  it 
rhymed.  After  reaching  the  mountain  summit 
where  they  were  to  make  the  lonely  grave  of  the 
lonely  scholar,  he  says  : 

"  Well,  here's  the  platform,  here's  the  proper  place : 
Hail  to  your  purlieus. 
All  ye  highfliers  of  the  feathered  race. 
Swallows  and  curlews." 

"  Curlews,"  I  thought,  were  wading-birds  that 
lived  on  the  shore,  and  I  accused  Browning  of 
bringing  in  the  word  simply  to  rhyme  with  "  pur- 
lieus." To  do  so  would  have  been  utterly  foreign 
to  his  nature,  and  I  soon  discovered  that  the  cur- 
lew resorts  to  the  mountains  in  summer.  No 
doubt  Browning  had  seen  swallows  and  curlews 
flying  over  a  lonely  rocky  ridge  before  he  wrote 
the  lines.  No  man  could  be  less  likely  to  use  a 
lazy  and  dishonest  device  than  he. 

Tennyson  feels  perhaps  more  sympathy  with 
the  gentle,  attractive  moods  of  nature  than 
Browning  does.  Browning  is  largely  preoccu- 
pied with  the  obscure  workings  of  the  soul,  with 
the  collisions  between  the  wilfulness  of  the  per- 
sonality and  the  calm,  onrushing  sweep  of  the 
great  moral  laws  ;  Tennyson  with  the  collisions 
between  the  individual  will  and  the  artificial  laws 


210  ELEMENTS    OF    LITERARY   CRITICISM 

of  society.  Browning  deals  with  the  elemental 
emotions ;  Tennyson  with  the  secondary  and 
modilied  emotions.  Browning  knew  more  of  art 
and  music  than  Tennyson.  But  this  refers  to  the 
philosophical  attitude  of  these  two  great  artists. 
As  a  phrase-maker,  Tennyson  is  very  powerful. 
He  has  struck  out  in  I)i  Mctiwriain  some  great 
phrases,  and  if  he  sometimes  falls  below  the  dy- 
namic phrase  to  the  dexterous  phrase,  or  even  to 
the  artificial  phrase  or  verbal  felicity,  so  does 
Shakespeare  himself  —  from  a  higher  elevation 
to  a  more  commonplace  level.  /;/  Menioriam  is 
marked  by  weighty  thought  and  weighty  phrases. 
Among  those  that  lodge  in  our  memory  is  the 
personification  of  death,  as  : 

"The  Shadow  cloaked  from  head  to  foot, 
Who  keeps  the  keys  of  all  the  creeds." 

And  the  characterization  of  Hallam  as  a 

"  High  nature,  aniorotis  of  the  good. 

But  touched  with  no  ascetic  gloom, 
And  passion  pure  in  snowy  blootn 
Through  all  the  years  of  April  blood." 

And  the  stanza  : 

"  A  love  of  freedom  rarely  felt — 
Of  freedom  in  her  regal  seat — ■ 
Of  England,  7tot  the  schoolboy  heat 
And  blind  hysterics  of  the  Celt." 


THE    PHRASAL    POWER  217 

Again  he  writes : 

"  And  thus  he  bore  without  abuse 
The  grand  old  name  of  gentleman. 
Defamed  by  every  charlatan, 
And  soiled  with  all  ignoble  use." 

The  strophe  which  embodies  the  main  ideas  of 
evolution  ends  : 

"  Arise,  and  fly 
The  reeling  Faun,  the  sensual  feast ; 
Move  upward,  working  out  the  beast, 
And  let  the  ape  a?td  tiger  die." 

At  the  close,  after  time  had  lessened  the  sharp- 
ness of  grief,  he  speaks  of  himself  as  one  in  whom 

"And  yet  is  love  not  less,  but  more; 

"  No  longer  caring  to  embalm 
In  dying  songs  a  dead  regret. 
But,  like  a  statue,  solid-set. 
And  moulded  in  colossal  cahn. 

"  Regret  is  dead,  but  love  is  more 

Than  in  the  summers  that  have  flown. 
For  I  myself  zejith  these  have  grown 
To  something  greater  thaji  before  ; 

"Which  makes  appear  the  songs  I  made 
As  echoes  out  of  weaker  times. 
As  half  but  idle,  brawling  rhymes. 
The  sport  of  random  sun  and  shade." 


2l8  ELEMENTS    OF    LITERARY    CRITICISM 

In  fact,  In  Memoriam  puts  into  powerful  and 
melodious  phrases  the  thought  of  the  man  edu- 
cated in  the  Christian  faith.  The  thought  is 
common  to  all  of  us,  but  the  phrasing  gives  it 
reach  and  force,  so  that  the  poem,  by  reason  of 
its  art,  will  probably  take  the  highest  rank  among 
the  contributions  of  the  nineteenth  century  to 
permanent  literature. 

Tennyson's  phrases  in  his  lyrics  are  often  won- 
derfully melodious  and  often  very  ingenious,  but 
seldom  have  the  vigorous  quality  of  the  great 
phrase.  They  have  finish  and  elegance,  but  lack 
fire  and  heat.  Carlyle's  are  just  the  opposite. 
They  are  rough-hewn,  and  have  the  sameness  of 
chips  of  granite  struck  off  by  powerful  blows. 
Carlyle's  intensity  and  savage  robustness  of  mind 
give  his  phrases  a  unique  power  in  his  more  ele- 
vated passages.  They  are  like  the  clang  of  a 
rough-toned  trumpet,  and  could  come  only  from 
a  member  of  a  race  that  finds  music  in  the  bag- 
pipe. Tennyson's  phrasing  makes  his  blank- 
verse  the  most  melodious  ever  written,  though 
it  lacks  the  varied  harmonies  that  give  such 
charm  to  Shakespeare's.  It  does  not  glow 
with  the  thought  as  his  does,  nor  can  it  reach 
the  harmony  that  the  combination  of  phrase 
and  line  gives  to  Shakespeare  and  Milton,  and 
(sometimes)  to  Browning.  We  are  conscious 
of  a  sameness  of  movement  in  this  from 
CEnone — 


THE    PHRASAL    POWER  219 

"For  now  the  noonday  quiet  liolds  tlie  hill: 
The  grasshopper  is  silent  in  the  grass: 
The  lizard,  with  his  shadow  on  the  stone, 
Rests  like  a  shadow,  and  the  cicala  sleeps. 
The  purple  flowers  droop:  the  golden  bee 
Is  lily-cradled  :   I  alone  awake. 
My  eyes  are  full  of  tears,  my  heart  of  love — 
My  heart  is  breaking,  and  my  eyes  are  dim, 
And  I  am  all  aweary  of  my  life." 

This  is  certainly  very  beautiful  blank -verse, 
but  characterized  by  melody  rather  than  by 
vigor,  and  destitute  of  the  strong  phrases  which 
stand  out  and  break  the  monotony  of  the  line. 

Mortc  d' Arthur  has  a  grand,  martial  move- 
ment, but  in  this,  too,  there  is  a  mechanical  note, 
and  the  phrasing  lacks  the  vigorous  variety  of 
nature. 

In  the  Idyls  of  the  King,  too,  the  phrasing 
seems  labored.     Consider  this  from  Enid : 

"And  bared  the  knotted  column  of  his  throat. 
The  massive  square  of  his  heroic  breast, 
And  arms  on  which  the  standing  muscle  sloped, 
As  slopes  a  wild  brook  o'er  a  little  stone, 
Running  too  vehemently  to  break  upon  it." 

That  is  certainly  not  struck  out  at  a  heat,  nor 
compacted  by  the  fusing  power  of  imagination. 
It  is  conscious  art  and  laborious  phrasing. 

In  Tears,  Idle  Tears,  Tennyson  has  written  a 
piece  of  blank-verse,  perfect  in  every  respect.     It 


2  20  ELEMENTS    OF    LITERARY    CRITICISM 

is  more  properly  entitled  ''  The  days  that  are  no 
more." 

"  Tears,  idle  tears,  I  know  not  what  they  mean : 
Tears  from  the  depth  of  some  divine  despair, 
Rise  in  the  heart  and  gather  to  the  eyes, 
In  looking  on  the  happy  Autumn  fields. 
And  thinking  of  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

"  Fresh  as  the  first  beam  glittering  on  a  sail 
That  brings  our  friends  up  from  the  underworld: 
Sad  as  the  last  which  reddens  over  one 
That  sinks  with  all  we  love  below  the  verge, 
So  sad,  so  fresh,  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

"Ah!  sad  and   strange  as   in   dark  summer  dawns, 
The  earliest  pipe  of  half-awakened   birds 
To  dying  ears  when   unto  dying  eyes 
The  casement  slowly  grows  a  glimmering  square, 
So  sad,  so  strange,  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

''  Dear  as  remembered  kisses  after  death, 
And  sweet  as  those  by  hopeless  fancy  feigned 
On  lips  that  are  for  others :  deep  as  love. 
Deep  as  first  love  and  wild  with  all   regret. 
O  death  in  life:  the  days  that  are  no  more." 

This  is  so  melodious  a  piece  of  verse  that  no 
one  would  notice  that  it  is  not  rhymed.  It  is  an 
illustration  of  musical  phrasing  rather  than  of 
powerful  phrasing.  It  is  a  perfect  piece  of  art 
with  a  certain  sentimental  and  feminine  quality 


THE    PHRASAL    POWER  221 

which  we  do  not  find  in  the  rugged  and   virile 
Browning. 

Literature  differs  from  the  other  arts  in  that 
every  composition,  whether  song,  narrative,  ar- 
gument, or  description,  must  have  at  the  bottom 
an  intelHgible  and  consecutive  line  of  thought. 
It  may  be  very  difficult,  perhaps  impossible,  to 
state  in  other  language  what  the  thought  is,  and 
it  may  seem  not  always  the  same,  but  the  definite 
thought  must  be  there.  Music,  appealing  solely 
to  the  emotions,  is  underlaid  by  an  indefinite 
sentiment,  but  literature  speaks  primarily  to  the 
intellect  and  to  the  emotions  as  the  intellect  bids 
them  arouse.  Painting  sometimes  tells  a  story 
quite  plainly,  but  colors,  which  bear  the  same  re- 
lation to  painting  that  phrases  do  to  literature, 
possess  some  of  the  indefinable  power  of  arousing 
emotion  that  musical  notes  have.  By  their  gra- 
dations and  contrast  and  in  themselves  they  are 
beautiful  although  they  represent  nothing  defi- 
nite. There  is  reason  in  the  theory  which  de- 
clares that  painting  is  strictly  decorative,  because 
a  painting  is  beautiful  when  it  is  decorative  and 
nothing  more.  But  the  literary  art  differs  from 
painting,  for  a  collocation  of  lovely  phrases,  how- 
ever musical  or  striking,  do  not  compose  except 
on  a  base  of  interwoven  ideas.  A  poem  which  is 
all  sweetness  is  detestable,  and  a  composition  of 
any  kind  which  consists  of  fine  phrases  with  no 
intellectual   coherence    is   hardly   less   so.      The 


222  ELEMENTS    OF    LITERARY    CRITICISM 

phrase  is  a  beautiful  combination  per  sc,  but  it  is 
entirely  subordinate  to  the  unity  of  the  entire 
composition  which  rests  upon  what  Rossetti  called 
"fundamental  brain-work." 

Phrases  are  the  molecules  of  literature  as  words 
are  its  atoms,  and  it  is  but  some  slight  difference 
of  molecular  arrangement  that  makes  the  differ- 
ence between  champagne  and  cider.  We  mod- 
erns have  a  method  of  imitating  a  sparkling  wine 
by  forcing  gas  into  cider.  This  may  do  for  "  pub- 
lic palates  which  public  dinners  breed,"  but  the 
wise  guest  drinks  no  more  than  politeness  com- 
pels, and  reflects  that  when  the  temperance  is 
wisdom  abstinence  may  be  a  virtue.  Our  mod- 
ern literature  is  marked  by  the  labored  phrase, 
the  artificial  phrase,  the  phrase  for  the  phrases' 
sake.  The  great  phrase  which  is  struck  out  from 
the  excitement  of  a  passionate  heart  laboring  for 
expression  is  never  heard.  It  would  not  be  un- 
derstood if  it  were.  Probably  the  day  for  it  and 
for  the  epic  has  passed.  Read  five  hundred  mod- 
ern sonnets ;  you  will  hardly  find  one  strong 
quotable  phrase  that  has  vigor  enough  to  live 
forever  in  men's  memories,  but  possibly  one  hun- 
dred that  fit  neatly  into  the  line  and  have  a  me- 
lodious cadence.  Posing,  or  the  conscious  as- 
sumption of  an  attitude  before  the  public,  has 
always  been  the  vice  of  literature.  Let  us  be 
thankful  that  in  our  time  the  pose  is  a  decent 
one,  with  the  hand  on  the  place  where  the  heart 


THE    PHRASAL    POWER  _  223 

is  supposed  to  be,  with  a  decorous  bend  towards 
virtue,  and  a  patronizing  regard  towards  the 
great  masters  of  the  past  who  are  beyond  praise 
or  blame.  There  are  literary  poses  quite  as  af- 
fected as  this  and  far  more  obiectionable. 


CHAPTER   VII 
THE    DESCRIPTIVE    POWER 

The  descriptive  power  may  be  defined,  broadly, 
as  the  ability  to  call  up  in  the  mind  of  the  reader 
definite  visual  images  of  concrete  objects — a  land- 
scape, a  crowded  street,  an  individual,  or  a  room 
with  its  furniture  and  occupants.  This  effect  de- 
pends not  only  on  the  words  as  symbols  of  things 
— if  it  depended  on  that  only  an  inventory  would 
be  sufficient — but  the  words  as  sounds  have  power 
to  call  up  images  associated  with  the  image  called 
up  by  the  word  itself.  The  words  as  units  of 
musical  force  reinforce  the  words  as  units  of  in-* 
tellectual  communication.  We  hear  these  sounds, 
although  we  do  not  speak  the  words  aloud.  Thus 
the  descriptive  power  is  moulded  with  the  musical 
power,  and  it  is  rarely  that  we  find  a  passage  of 
description  in  which  rhythm  is  not  an  element. 
If  we  consider  for  a  moment  the  line  in  Catullus, 

"  Ut  flos  in  scptis  sccrctus  nascitur  hortis," 

we  find  that  it  calls  up  a  picture  of  a  small,  per- 
fectly formed  flower,  not  brilliant  in  color,  grow 


THE    DESCRIPTIVE    POWER  225 

fng  in  a  corner  made  by  a  hedge  or  wall,  in  still 
air.  If  we  disarrange  the  words  so  as  to  break 
the  rhythm,  writing  them,  for  instance, 

"  Ut  secretus  flos  nascitur  in  septis  hortis," 
or  if  we  translate  them  literally, 
"  As  a  hidden  flower  grows  in  an  enclosed    garden," 

the  mental  image  becomes  much  less  vivid.  We 
see  another  flower  in  a  different  kind  of  garden, 
and  we  see  it  much  less  distinctly.  The  move- 
ment of  the  beautiful  hexameter  undoubtedly 
adds  to  and  colors  the  descriptive  power  of  the 
words.  The  musical  power  is  moulded  into  and 
blends  with  the  descriptive  power  of  the  artist. 
This  interfusing  of  the  two  powers  will  become 
still  more  evident  from  a  consideration  of  the 
entire  poem. 

Again,  the  phrasal  power,  or  that  which  en- 
ables the  artist  to  combine  words  into  a  whole 
greater  than  the  elements,  or  words,  of  which  it 
is  made,  joins  with  the  descriptive  power  ;  in  fact, 
phrases  are  the  elements  of  description  quite  as 
much  as  words.  King  Henry,  in  apostrophizing 
sleep,  says  : 

"  O  gentle  sleep  ! 
Wilt  thou,  upon  the  high  and  giddy  mast, 
Seal  up  the  ship-boy's  eyes  and  rock  his  brains 
In  cradle  of  the  rude,  imperious  surge?" 
15 


226  ELEMENTS    OF    LITERARY    CRITICISM 

The  last  phrase  is  wonderfully  descriptive  in 
itself,  although  the  passage  is  reflective.  The 
phrasal  power,  which  we  have  made  the  subject 
of  another  paper,  furnishes  raw  material  to  the 
descriptive  power,  and  the  musical  power  height- 
ens and  gives  color  to  the  description  as  a  whole. 

In  modern  times  the  power  of  rhythm  to  color 
description  is  rarely  used  in  prose.  The  age  is 
impatient  of  affectation,  and  it  is  so  easy  to  fall 
into  an  artificial  rhythm  in  prose  that  description 
is  limited  to  clear,  succinct  statement  and  definite 
modification.  We  find  nothing  like  the  rhythms 
of  Ruskin,  or  even  of  Macaulay,  or,  still  lower,  of 
Dickens,  in  modern  writing.  Great  care  is  taken 
to  seize  the  characteristic  salient  points  of  things 
and  to  enumerate  minutiae,  so  as  to  make  a  har- 
monious whole,  both  of  which  are  important  ar- 
tistic requirements  ;  but  word-painting,  as  it  is 
called,  is  not  in  vogue,  partly  because  it  is  so  diffi- 
cult to  do  it  well  and  partly  because  when  not  done 
well  it  becomes  ridiculous — and  ridicule  is  the  one 
thing  the  modern  writer  has  not  the  courage  to 
meet — and  partly  because  so  much  attention  is 
paid  nowadays  to  hunting  the  phrase  that  the 
writer  has  little  artistic  energy  left  to  form  in  his 
mind  a  luminous  image  of  an  object  and  make  a 
presentation  of  it  in  words.  But  modern  descrip- 
tion gains  in  truth,  or  rather  in  accuracy,  what 
it  loses  in  vividness.  It  is  scarcely  possible  to 
gain  a  clear  idea  of  a  London  street  or  of  a  Lon- 


THE    DESCRIPTIVE    POWER  227 

don  interior  from  the  literature  of  the  tenth 
century,  but  our  descendants  would  find  little 
trouble  in  doing  as  much  for  the  London  of 
to-day,  even  if  all  pictorial  illustration  were  lost. 
It  is  very  difficult,  too,  to  form  a  clear  image  of 
the  outward  appearance  of  the  early  settlements 
in  this  country,  and  comparatively  easy  to  do  as 
much  for  a  modern  mining  camp  of  which  we 
have  never  seen  a  counterpart.  If  the  art  of  de- 
scription has  lost  some  of  its  imaginative  insight 
in  our  day,  the  loss  is  partly  compensated  by  a 
gain  in  definite,  concrete  representation. 

It  must  not  be  believed  that  description  is  a 
matter  of  enumeration  of  particulars  merely. 
The  number  of  square  feet  in  a  room  or  the  ac- 
curate dimensions  of  an  architect  are  not  ele- 
ments that  affect  the  imagination.  Description 
must  not  be  mechanical.  It  must  be  colored  by 
individuality.  One  man  sees  things  in  one  way, 
another  man  in  another.  We  want  the  thing  put 
before  us  as  the  artist  sees  it ;  consequently,  de- 
scriptions equally  true  may  be  very  different,  for 
the  significance  of  things  is  many  sided  ;  beauty, 
especiall)^,  is  inexhaustible  in  its  aspects.  Shel- 
ley, for  instance,  saw  everything  through  an  emo- 
tional medium  and  as  related  to  pain  or  death  ; 
yet  his  skylark  is  a  real  bird,  though  he  says 
nothing  about  its  spotted  breast  or  the  length  of 
its  wings.  The  images  he  creates  are  enveloped 
in  a  mist  quite  different  from  the  haze  that  lies 


2  28  ELEMENTS    OF    LITERARY    CRITICISM 

on  Tennyson's  pictures,  or  the  clear  atmosphere 
in  which  we  see  the  bank  of  daffodils  described 
by  Wordsworth.  Yet  all  are  equally  true  pres- 
entations of  nature  as  related  to  the  soul  of 
man. 

A  distinction  might  be  made  between  the  de- 
scriptive phrase  and  the  descriptive  passage.  A 
descriptive  phrase  is  a  touch,  and  its  considera- 
tion rightly  belongs  to  the  chapter  on  the  phrasal 
power.  The  descriptive  passage  is  a  picture  made 
up  of  many  touches.  The  descriptive  phrase  de- 
pends largely  on  the  adjective  and  on  the  adverb 
— on  the  primary  modifications — the  descriptive 
passage  on  the  grouping  of  many  phrases  modi- 
fying each  other.  Thus  in  jNIatthew  Arnold's  line 
alluding  to  Oxford, 

"  And  the  sweet  city  and  her  dreatntftg  spires," 

or  Milton's, 

"  While  the  still  moon  went  ont  with  sandals  gray," 

or  his  allusion  to  the  fortress  of  St.  ^Michael, 

"  Where  the  great  vision  of  the  guarded  i/ioutit 
Looks  towards  Namancos  and  Bayona's  hold," 

the  adjectives  are  plainly  the  essence  of  the  de- 
scriptive power  of  the  phrase,  unless  in  the  last 
we  should  give  the  most  credit  to  the  majestic 
rhythm.     The  most  powerful  descriptive  passage 


THE    DESCRIPTIVE    POWER  229 

of  modern  times  is  Froude's  narrative  of  the  exe- 
cution of  Mary  Queen  of  Scots.  Dickens's  de- 
scription of  the  storm  in  which  Steerforth  and 
Ham  Peggotty  lost  their  lives  is  another  cele- 
brated example.  It  would  be  instructive  to  ex- 
amine the  different  relations  of  writers  to  their 
subject-matter,  as  shown,  for  instance,  by  a  com- 
parison of  the  description  of  Dover  Cliff  in  Lear 
and  of  Congreve's  description  of  a  cathedral  in 
the  ]\Iourning  Bride,  which  are  illustrative  of  the 
changed  attitude  of  men  to  the  external  world  in 
successive  centuries. 

As  a  further  illustration  of  the  effect  of  musical 
arrangement  in  description,  consider  the  cata- 
logue of  the  ships  in  the  first  book  of  the  Iliad. 
When  translated  by  Pope,  this  list  is  as  far  re- 
moved from  poetry  as  words  can  be,  except  in  a 
mathematical  demonstration — 

"  The  hardy  warriors  whom  Boeotia  bred, 
Penelius,  Leitus,  Prothoenor  led. 
With  these  Arcesilaus  and  Clonius  stand 
Equal  in  arms  and  equal  in  command. 
These  head  the  troops  that  rocky  Aulis  yields. 
And   Eteon's  hills  and  Hyrie's  watery  fields; 
And  Schoenos,  Scholos.  Graea,  near  the  main, 
And  Mycalessia's  ample  piny  plain. 
Those  who  in  Peteon  or  Ilesion  dwell, 
Or  Harma  where  Apollo's  prophet  fell. 
Heleon  and   Hyle,  which  the  springs  o'erflow. 
And  Medeon  lofty  and  Ocalea  low." 


230  ELEMENTS    OF    LITERARY    CRITICISM 

This  is  certainly  "skimble-skamble  stuff,"  and 
is  little  better  in  blank-verse.  It  is  a  mere  enu- 
meration. In  the  original  Greek  the  sounds  of 
the  words  call  up  pictures  of  the  heroic  world — 
they  are  descriptive.  In  the  English  they  are 
absolutely  worthless.  The  words  as  symbols  are 
ineffective,  colorless — merely  a  list  of  dead  names. 
When  Alilton  has  an  occasion  to  set  down  a  list 
of  names,  he  weaves  them  into  verse.  The  names 
become  living  and  call  up  images,  even  if  we  know 
little  of  the  persons  or  places  enumerated.  Com- 
pare, for  instance,  the  enumeration  of  the  Eastern 
cities  shown  to  our  Lord  by  the  Tempter,  Para- 
dise Regained,  Book  III.: 

"  Here  thou  behold'st 
Assyria,  and  her  empire's  ancient  bounds, 
Araxes  and  the  Caspian  Lake ;  thence  on 
As  far  as  Indus  east,  Euphrates  west. 
And  oft  beyond  :  to  south  the  Persian  Bay, 
And,  inaccessible,  the  Arabian  drought: 
Here  Nineveh,  of  length  within  her  wall 
Several  days'  journey,  built  by  Ninus  old; 
Of  that  first  golden  monarchy  the  seat. 
And  seat  of  Salmanassar,  whose  success 
Israel  in  long  captivity,  still  mourns ; 
There  Babylon,  the  wonder  of  all  tongues. 
As  ancient,  but  rebuilt  by  him  who  twice 
Judah  and  all  thy  father  David's  house 
Led  captive,  and  Jerusalem  laid  waste. 
Till  Cyrus  set  them  free ;  Persepolis, 
His  city,  there  thou  seest,  and   Bactra,  there ; 


THE    DESCRIPTIVE    POWER  23I 

Ecbatana  her  structure  vast  there  shows, 
And  Hecatompylos  her  hundred  gates; 
There  Susa.  by  Choaspes,  amber  stream, 
The  drink  of  none  but  Kings." 


Milton  gives  his  catalogue  the  effect  of  a  pano- 
rama, showing  that  an  illusion  may  be  produced 
by  the  rhythmical  arrangement  of  names,  even 
when  very  few  descriptive  touches  are  added. 
Life  is  given  to  the  merest  skeleton.  The  words 
as  symbols  receive  added  efficiency  from  the 
words  as  sounds,  and  call  up  not  merely  vague 
notions  of  some  forgotten  city  but  a  picture  of 
the  mysterious  oriental  civilization  with  its  vast 
cities,  its  swarming  populations,  its  wealth  and 
cruelty.  The  names  of  the  cities  fall  upon  the 
ear  so  as  to  have  a  cumulative  effect,  whereas 
in  Pope's  translation  of  Homer  each  one  obliter- 
ates the  impression  made  by  the  preceding  one. 
At  the  same  time  the  strictly  descriptive  matter 
in  the  passage  from  Milton  is  very  slight.  The 
antiquity  and  magnitude  of  Nineveh  and  Babylon 
are  suggested,  but  nothing  is  clearly  brought  be- 
fore the  reader's  mind.  It  is  an  effective  passage 
from  the  skilful  use  of  names,  and  its  power  lies 
in  the  sonorousness  of  the  names  as  much  as  in 
the  associations  with  them. 

Therefore,  we  cannot  make  a  classification  of 
poets  as  those  who  sing  a  song  and  those  who 
paint  a  picture,  for  the  song  paints  a  picture  and 


232  ELEMENTS    OF    LITERARY    CRITICISM 

the  picture  is  in  song-like  form.  But  we  can  dis- 
tinguish those  whose  primary  impulse  is  to  sing 
a  song  from  those  whose  primary  impulse  is  to 
paint  a  picture,  those  with  whom  the  expression  of 
emotion  seeks  a  rhythmical  form,  and  those  before 
whose  minds  the  manifold  aspects  of  the  external 
world  form  a  succession  of  images  they  are  im- 
pelled to  place  before  others  in  the  medium  of 
words.  At  the  same  time  the  rhythmical  and 
metrical  medium  which  both  use  has/rr  sea.  pict- 
uresque, moulding  power.  And,  again,  the  emo- 
tional self-disclosure  of  the  lyric  throws  a  light 
on  external  surroundings  in  which  they  are  re- 
vealed with  startling  distinctness.  When  Burns 
is  writing  Aiild  Lang  Syne  he  is  impelled  to  sing 
a  song.  He  is  under  the  dominion  of  feeling, 
feeling  so  human  that  every  one  who  reads  sym- 
pathizes.    But  the  line, 

"  We  twa  hae  paid'lt  i'  tlie  burn," 

brings  up  an  image  as  clear  as  that  produced  by 
Whittier's  poem,  the  Barefoot  Boy.  Neverthe- 
less, we  can  easily  distinguish  one  as  an  emotional 
lyric,  and  the  other  as  a  descriptive  poem.  Verse 
is  the  voice  of  passion  as  well  as  of  contempla- 
tive calm,  but  the  line  in  which  the  heartbeat  is 
heard  is  the  higher  form  of  art,  because  feeling 
is  a  primal  force,  and  intellect  is  receptive,  and 
has  only  a  moulding,  not  an  originating  power. 


THE    DESCRIPTIVE    POWER  233 

But  when  the  intellect  responds  to  the  emotions 
of  sympathy  with  the  external  world,  and  is  not 
violently  stirred  by  wonder,  fear,  love,  or  scorn, 
the  result  is  descriptive  passages  reflecting  the 
images  mirrored  in  the  soul.  But  some  natures 
cannot  contemplate  external  nature  without 
overmastering  emotion.  They  can  hardly  be  said 
to  contemplate  or  describe.  Their  sensitive  souls 
infuse  the  element  of  personality  into  every  ut- 
terance. They  give  out  a  part  of  themselves. 
Shelley  is  one  of  these,  and  a  representative 
eighteenth  -  century  poet  —  say  Thompson  or 
Crabbe — is  at  the  other  extreme.  Between  the 
poets  in  whom  a  sensitive  personality  predomi- 
nates and  those  in  whom  an  intellectual  personal- 
ity predominates  are  ranged  the  members  of  the 
entire  band.  We  have  to  do  with  the  presenta- 
tion of  nature  by  all  of  these.     Shelley  writes  : 

"Oh  wild  west  wind,  thou  breath  of  Autumn's  being! 
Thou  from  whose  unseen  presence  the  leaves  dead 
Are  driven,  like  ghosts,  from  an  enchanter  fleeing, 

Yellow  and  black  and  pale  and  hectic  red, 
Pestilence-stricken  multitudes "  .  .  « 

He  brings  before  our  minds  with  great  distinct- 
ness the  hurrying,  dry  leaves  drifting  before  the 
wind,  but  his  sense  of  a  living  power  animating 
nature  is  so  keen  that  he  at  once  personifies  it 
and  them.     His  description  is  colored  by  feeling 


234  ELEMENTS    OF    LITERARY    CRITICISM 

for  the  mystery  of  force.  Emotion  takes  pos- 
session of  him  just  as  it  does  in  Adonais  when  he 
describes  Rome : 

"  Rome,  at  once  the  Paradise, 
The  grave,  the  city,  and  the  wilderness  " — 

"...  Ages,  empires,  and  religions  there 
Lie  buried  in  the  ravage  they  have  wrought." 

He  does  not  see  the  place  at  all.  He  is  taken 
up  by  the  feelings  that  the  history  and  greatness 
of  Rome  evoke.  This  poem  of  Adonais  is  so  sur- 
charged with  emotion  that  it  causes  us  to  doubt 
if  Shelley  could  have  been  a  long-lived  man  had 
he  escaped  the  violent  death  he  was  soon  to  meet. 

In  his  Hymn  to  the  Night,  he  addresses  a  Vision. 
He  makes  no  attempt  at  definite  description  : 

"  Swiftly  walk  over  the  western  wave, 

Spirit  of  Night! 
Out  of  the  misty  eastern  cave. 
Where  all  the  long  and  lone  daylight 
Thou  wovest  dreams  of  joy  and  fear. 
Which  make  thee  terrible  and  dear, — 

Swift  be  thy  flight! 
Wrap  thy  form  in  a  mantle  gray. 

Star-inwrought "... 

This  is  pure  lyricism,  emotion  projecting  itself  in 
vague  forms  like  the  frost  on  the  glass,  and  pos- 
sessing from  its  very  uncertainty  of  outline  the 


THE    DESCRIPTIVE     POWER  235 

power  of  suggesting  pictures  beyond  the  reach 
of  art. 

This  allusive  and  indirect  manner  of  descrip- 
tion is  peculiar  to  Shelley.  It  has  great  charm 
to  the  imaginative  reader.  The  pictures  are  like 
those  in  a  magic  mirror  ;  they  are  created  by 
the  observer,  but  the  mirror  suggests  them  to  one 
person.  The  next  may  see  nothing  but  cloudy 
depths,  and  a  magician  must  hold  up  the  mirror 
or  the  most  piercing  eye  may  see  nothing. 

As  a  rule,  poets  see  their  creations  more  dis- 
tinctly or  at  least  they  describe  them  more  defi- 
nitely than  Shelley  does.  Milton's  Satan  looms 
large  and  vague,  but  his  spear  is  like  the  tall 
mainmast  of  a  ship,  his  shield  is  like  the  moon  as 
Galileo  saw  it  through  his  telescope  : 

"  His  ponderous   shield, 
Ethereal  temper,  massy,  large  and  round. 
Behind  him   cast,  the  broad  circumference 
Hung  on  his  shoulders  like  the   moon,  whose  orb 
Through  optic  glass  the  Tuscan  artist  views 
At  evening  from  the  top  of  Fesole, 
Or  in   Valdarno,  to  descry   new  lands. 
Rivers  or  mountains  in  her  spotty  globe." 

"His  spear,  to  equal  which  the  tallest  pine, 
Hewn   in  Norwegian  hills,  to  be  the    mast 
Of  some  great  admiral,  were  but  a  wand." 

This  is  the  usual  method  of  Milton.  His  de- 
scription gives  an  impression  of  qualities,  usually 


236  ELEMENTS    OF    LITERARY    CRITICISM 

vastness  and  semi-obscurity,  though  not  the  in- 
definiteness  of  Shelley  who  describes  shadows. 
Milton  describes  solid  things  in  the  shadow.  The 
moon  is  not  a  measure  of  size.  To  some  people 
it  appears  small,  to  others,  large,  though  all  know 
that  it  is  large.  The  tall  pine  which  Milton  never 
had  seen  is  also  an  indefinite  measure  of  size. 
He  tries  to  describe  an  imagined  world  not  so 
much  through  the  medium  of  this  world  which 
he  has  seen  but  through  the  medium  of  what  he 
imagines  things  he  has  heard  of  or  read  about  in 
this  world  to  be.  It  might  be  said  that  this  is 
the  only  way  in  which  a  blind  man  could  de- 
scribe objects,  but  Milton  did  not  become  blind 
before  middle  age.  It  is  his  natural  method  of 
description.  Possibly  he  had  looked  at  the  moon 
through  an  "optic  glass,"  but  if  he  did,  he  saw  it 
with  his  imagination.  The  Norwegian  pine  he 
never  saw.  It  was  to  him  something  of  unusual, 
striking,  but  indefinite  height.  Satan,  he  says, 
lay  in  the  burning  sulphur,  "  floating  many  a 
rood."  He  compares  him  to  fabulous  monsters, 
"  Briareos  "  or  "  Typhon  :" 

..."  Or  that  sea  beast 
Leviathan,  which  God,  of  all   his  works. 
Created   hugest  that  swim  the  ocean  stream," 

whom  the  mariner  takes  for  an  island  and 
"  Moors  by  the  side,  under  tlie  lee." 


THE    DESCRIPTIVE    POWER  237 

He  says  that  hell  is 

"A  dungeon   horrible  on  all  sides  round, 
As  one  great  furnace  flamed  ;  j'et  from  those  flames 
No  light,  but  rather  darkness  visible," 

and  says  that  Vulcan,  thrown  from  Heaven,  fell 

"From  morn  to  noon,  from   noon  to  dewy  eve, 
A  summer's  day,  and  with  the  setting  sun, 
Dropt  from   the  zenith  like  a  falling  star." 

Satan's  standard, 

"  full  high  advanced, 
Shone  like  a  meteor  streaming  to  the  wind. 
With  gems  and  golden   lustre   rich  emblazed." 

Again  he  describes  Satan  passing  over  chaos  : 

"  Half  on  foot, 
Half  flying  .  .   . 

As  when  a  gryphon  through  the  wilderness, 
With  winged  course,  o'er  hill  or  moory  dale, 
Pursues  the  Arimaspian,  who,  by  stealth, 
Had  from   his  wakeful  custody  purloined 
The  guarded  gold." 

As  a  rule,  this  is  the  method  of  Milton's  de- 
scription. There  is  no  concrete  precision,  but 
the  striking  feature  is  flashed  on  the  mind  by 
calling  up  an  analogous  feature  of  a  phenomenon 
in  no  way  resembling  the  one  seen  in  his  imagi- 
nation.    When  he  speaks  of  Satan  "  Squat  like  a 


238  ELEMENTS    OF    LITERARY    CRITICISM 

toad  "  at  the  car  of  Eve,  or  compares  the  legions 
of  fallen  angels  to  a  swarm  of  bees  in  the  spring, 
he  seems  to  be  departing  from  his  usual  manner. 
As  a  rule,  the  scale  on  which  he  sees  things  is  so 
large  that  he  can  furnish  no  actual  unit  of  com- 
parison, as  the  astronomers  in  enumerating  the 
interstellar  spaces  must  use  the  diameter  of  the 
earth's  orbit  for  a  measuring  rod. 

Dante's  imagination  was  of  a  different  quality. 
He  saw  his  imagined  world  more  clearly,  and 
in  describing  it  made  use  of  actual  things  and 
places  with  definite  dimensions  and  colors.  The 
gate  of  hell,  in  Paradise  Lost,  is  a  vague,  immense 
opening  on 

"A  dark,  illimitable  ocean  without  bound, 
Without  dimension,  where  length,  breadth  and  height, 
And  time  and  place  are  lost." 

Dante  comes  to  a  door  in  the  side  of  a  moun- 
tain.    He  says  : 

"  These  words  in  obscure  color  I  saw  written 
Above  a  gate — Through  me  is  the  way  into  the  dole- 
ful  city. 
Through  me  the  way  among  the  lost  people.     Justice 
Moved    my  great    maker.     Divine    power   made    me, 

Wisdom 
Supreme    and    Primal    Love.      Before    me    were    no 

things  created 
But  the  eternal  things,  and  I  endure  eternal. 
Leave  all  hope  behind,  ye  who  enter  here." 


THE    DESCRIPTIVE    POWER  2.^9 

The  monster  Geryon  comes  swimming  upward 
out  of  the  abyss, 

"  Like  as  he  returns  who  sometimes  goes  down  to  loosen 
the  anchor  which  grapples  a  rock  or  other  thing  that  is 
hid  in  the  sea,  who  spreads  his  arms  and  draws  up  his 
feet." 

He  sees  the  Simoniacs 

"  Head  downwards  in  holes  made  in  hot  stone  all  of  one 
size,  about  as  large  as  the  fonts  in  San  Giovanni,  a  lam- 
bent fiame  on  the  soles  of  their  feet ;  and  as  the  flame 
of  things  oiled  moves  only  on  the  outer  surface,  so  it  was 
there  from  the  heels  to  the  toes." 

In  the  Malebolge,  where  the  office-brokers  and 
the  public  peculators  are  plunged  in  boiling  pitch, 
he  found  it  "  marvellous  dark,"  and  compares  it 
to  the  ship-yard  in  Venice,  and  says  : 

"  As  in  winter,  when  they  cannot  navigate,  the  Vene- 
tians boil  the  clammy  pitch  to  caulk  their  damaged 
ships  ...  so  not  by  fire  but  by  art  divine  a  dense  pitch 
boiled  down  there  and  made  the  banks  sticky.  It  I  saw, 
but  saw  naught  therein  except  the  bubbles  which  the 
boiling  raised  and  the  whole  swell  and  subside  com- 
pressed. .  .  .  And  as  dolphins  when  they  plunge  with 
arched  back,  so  now  and  then  some  sinner  showed  his 
back  above  the  surface  and  hid  in  less  time  than  light- 
ning lasts.  And  as  at  the  edge  of  the  water  of  a  ditch 
the  frogs  stand  with  only  their  noses  out,  and  so  conceal 
their  bodies,  thus  stood  on  every  hand  the  sinners;  but 
as  the  demon  approached  they  withdrew  beneath  the 


240  ELEMENTS    OF    LITERARY    CRITICISM 

boiling  pitch.  I  saw,  anti  my  heart  still  shudders  there- 
at, one  linger— as  it  will  happen  that  one  frog  remains 
where  the  others  disappeared— and  the  demon  who  was 
nearest  to  him  hitched  his  hook  into  his  pitchy  hair  and 
hauled  him  up,  so  that  to  me  he  seemed  an  otter." 

In  the  ninth  circle  he  finds  the  schismatics  and 
those  who  fomented  civil  strife  : 

"  I  saw,  and  still  seem  to  see,  a  trunk  going  without  a 
head,  as  the  others  of  that  dismal  herd  were  going ;  and 
it  was  holding  the  severed  head  by  the  hair,  swinging 
like  a  lantern  in  its  hand." 

Among  the  people  who  are  described  by  this 
realistic  imagery,  he  meets  not  only  historic  per- 
sonages— Dido,  Achilles,  and  Alahomet — but  his 
own  contemporaries,  persons  as  well  known  to 
the  public  of  his  day  as  Benedict  Arnold  or  Edgar 
A.  Poe  are  to  us.  We  can  understand  the  interest 
his  verse  aroused  among  a  people  whose  genius  to 
look  on  things  closely  originated  the  art  of  paint- 
ing, which  depends  on  accurate,  concrete  observa- 
tion. The  bald  translation  I  have  used  illustrates 
the  descriptive  quality  of  his  words,  because  the 
musical  element  is  eliminated,  and  the  marked 
contrast  between  Milton  and  Dante  shows  how 
description  is  an  outcome  of  imaginative  consti- 
tution and  an  intimate  part  of  style.  Of  the  two 
methods  the  Miltonic  —  grandiose,  vague,  and 
illusive  —  seems  to  lack  the  power  of  the  Dan- 


THE    DESCRIPTIVE    POWER  241 

tesque  —  precise,  sharp-cut,  and  making  almost 
the  effect  of  a  visual  image.  One  method  is 
more  germane  to  the  Northern  imagination,  the 
other  to  the  Southern. 

Descriptions  of  this  world  of  ours  vary  as  much 
in  artistic  character  as  do  the  sustained  attempts 
to  embody  an  imaged  world  of  disembodied  spir- 
its. We  are  net  machines,  photographing  the 
world.  We  see  things  through  the  medium  of 
our  individuality.  Light  passes  through  an  at- 
mosphere, which  gives  it  a  character  and  causes 
the  landscape  to  appear  entirely  different  at  dif- 
ferent times.  So  a  description  is  an  attempt  to 
embody  things  seen  through  the  atmosphere 
which  surrounds  a  human  soul.  Wordsworth's 
tree  is  not  the  lumberman's  tree.  The  rock  that 
Wordsworth  saw  in  his  youth  was  the  same  that 
he  saw  when  an  old  man,  but  it  appeared  new  and 
strange.  And  besides  the  difference  of  medium 
through  which  different  people  see  things,  there 
is  a  physical  difference.  Some  persons  see  color 
when  others  see  only  light  and  shade.  How  do 
we  know  that  red  looks  the  same  to  one  that  it 
does  to  another  ?  We  can  readily  see  that  de- 
scriptions are  infinite  in  variety,  even  though  all 
are  true  in  spirit  and  detail,  because  nature  is  a 
"book  of  infinite  secrecy." 

Viewing  nature  through  the  dominant  mood  is 
called  by  Ruskin  the  pathetic  fallacy — that  is,  we 
fallaciously  attribute  to  nature  a  harmony  with 
16 


242  ELEMENTS    OF    LITERARY    CRITICISM 

our  feelings.  She  looks  bright  and  joyful  in  the 
morning  light,  and  hints  of  the  everlasting  and 
the  infinite  at  night.  To  the  man  whose  thoughts 
dwell  on  the  unending  flow  of  time  and  the  cease- 
less lapses  of  all  things  into  the  past,  nature  seems 
but  a  scaffolding  built  by  time  for  the  display  of 
a  brief  drama.  To  Poe  the  earth  is  a  tomb  ;  to 
Scott,  a  stage,  over  which  move  the  processions 
of  humanity  in  historic  pageants.  To  others  it 
is  an  organism  full  of  latent  powers  which  take 
shape — as  sorrow,  disease,  and  death  ;  and  to  oth- 
ers a  playground  or  a  picture-gallery.  That  de- 
scription must  depend  largely  upon  the  aspect 
under  which  we  habitually  see  the  earth  is  evi- 
dent. Hawthorne's  earth  is  quiet  and  sombre, 
but  continually  giving  out  hints  of  an  under- 
world of  quaint  and  mocking  intelligence.  It  is 
nothing  if  not  suggestive.  In  the  story  of  Ethan 
Brand,  the  fire  in  the  lime-burner's  furnace  in  the 
forest  is  made  to  seem  the  life  in  the  wicked  heart 
of  a  man,  and  its  extinction,  death.  After  the 
vulgar  revellers,  who  bring  with  them  a  hint  of 
diabolic  forces  in  the  person  of  the  showman, 
have  gone,  leaving  Brand,  Bartram,  and  the  boy, 
Hawthorne  says  : 

"  Save  for  these  three  human  beings  the  open  space  on 
the  hillside  was  a  solitude  set  in  a  vast  g-'oom  of  forest. 
Beyond  that  darksome  verge  the  firelight  glimmered  on 
the  stately  trunks  and  almost  black  foliage  of  pines,  in- 
termixed with  the  lighter  verdure  of  sailing  oaks,  maples 


THE    DESCRIPTIVE    POWER  243 

aiKj  poplars,  while  here  and  there  lay  the  gigantic  corpses 
of  dead  trees  decaying  on  the  leaf-strewn  soil.  And  it 
seemed  to  little  Joe,  a  timorous  and  imaginative  child, 
that  the  silent  forest  was  holding  its  breath  until  some 
fearful  thing  should  happen." 

Next  morning  Brand  is  dead  and  the  departure 
of  his  desperate  and  tormented  soul  leaves  nature 
unoppressed  : 

"  Bartram  issued  from  the  hut  followed  by  little  Joe, 
who  kept  fast  hold  of  his  father's  hand.  The  early  sun- 
shine was  already  pouring  its  gold  upon  the  mountain- 
tops,  and,  though  the  valleys  were  still  in  shadow,  they 
smiled  cheerfull}^  in  the  promise  of  the  bright  day  that 
was  hastening  onward.  The  village,  completely  shut  in 
by  hills,  which  swelled  away  gently  about  it,  looked  as 
if  it  had  rested  peacefully  in  the  hollow  of  the  great  hand 
of  Providence.  Every  dwelling  was  distinctly  visible, 
the  little  spires  of  the  two  churches  pointed  upwards 
and  caught  a  foreglimmering  of  the  brightness  from  the 
sun-giU  skies  upon  their  gilded  weather -cocks.  The 
tavern  was  astir  and  the  figure  of  the  old  smoke-dried 
stage-agent,  cigar  in  mouth,  was  seen  beneath  the  stoop. 
Old  Greylock  was  glorified  with  a  golden  cloud  upon  its 
head.  Scattered  over  the  hearts  of  the  surrounding 
mountains  there  were  heaps  of  heavy  mist  or  cloud  hov- 
ering in  the  gold  radiance  of  the  upper  atmosphere 
Stepping  from  one  to  another  of  the  clouds  that  rested 
on  the  hills,  and  thence  to  the  loftier  brotherhood  that 
sailed  in  air,  it  seemed  almost  as  if  a  mortal  man  might 
ascend  into  the  heavenly  regions.  Earth  was  so  min- 
gled with  sky  that  it  was  a  day-dream  to  look  at  it." 


244  ELF.MEMTS    OF    LITERARY    CRITICISM 

Science  views  the  mountains  as  hard,  immov- 
able masses,  the  clouds,  as  Avatery  vapor,  obscur- 
ing and  refracting  the  light,  both  subject  to  un- 
changing law.  If  it  "  seemed  as  if  a  mortal  might 
reach  heaven  "  from  their  heights,  such  seeming 
is  a  delusion.  The  earth  is  absolutely  devoid  of 
any  quality  with  which  man's  moral  nature  can 
sympathize.  Consequently,  such  a  description 
as  Hawthorne's  which  assumes  a  response  be- 
tween the  earth  and  man's  emotional  being  is 
false.  It  might  do  in  an  age  when  men  personi- 
fied natural  forces  and  believed  that  living  things 
inhabited  the  trees,  rocks,  streams,  and  hills,  but 
is  untrue  now  when  we  know  that  things  have 
no  souls.  But  art  consists  in  presenting  things 
not  as  they  are,  but  as  they  appear  to  an  emo- 
tional nature  endowed  with  the  gift  of  embody- 
ing its  impressions  in  a  medium  of  communica- 
tion. The  question  is  open  whether  things  do 
not  appear  more  truly  as  they  are  to  the  artist 
than  to  the  unemotional,  scientific  observer  ;  but 
leaving  that  question  on  one  side,  it  is  the  human 
being's  report,  not  the  notes  of  a  scientific  man, 
that  we  wish  to  hear.  It  is  description  colored  by 
the  literary  art  that  interests  us  when  we  read 
Victor  Hugo's  account  of  Waterloo,  or  Zola's  ac- 
count of  the  battle  of  Sedan,  or  Hawthorne's 
notes  on  the  custom-house  at  Salem,  or  the  pict- 
ure of  a  brick-maker's  hovel  and  its  inmates  by 
Dickens,  or  of  the  Esmond  House  by  Thackeray, 


THE    DESCRIPTIVE    POWER  245 

or  of  old  London  by  Lamb.  We  are  human  be- 
ings ourselves,  and  we  wish  to  hear  a  human  be- 
ing tell  us  how  the  earth  looks  to  him.  He  must 
tell  us  truly,  and  he  must  look  at  it  with  all  his 
nature,  not  with  his  eyes  merely.  Our  eyes  are 
as  good  as  his,  but  man  does  not  see  with  his 
eyes  alone.  If  he  did  there  would  be  no  art,  and 
Kipling  and  Hardy  and  Stevenson  would  be 
no  greater  than  the  ordinary  pen-photographers. 
Therefore  this  "pathetic  fallacy,"  or  looking  at 
nature  sub  specie  hmnanitatis,  is  a  legitimate 
method. 

Of  course  this  method  must  present  a  consist- 
ent picture.  The  emotion  which  colors  the  pict- 
ure must  be  genuine,  sustained  emotion.  Of  all 
lies  there  is  none  worse  than  literary  affectation. 
A  man  should  not  talk  of  the  "  smiling  plain  " 
unless  it  really  appears  "smiling"  to  him,  nor  of 
the  "frowning  crag"  unless  by  that  adjective  he 
tries  honestly  to  express  a  genuine  feeling.  Mr. 
Ruskin  points  out  an  instance  of  the  lack  of  sim- 
plicity which  makes  Pope  appear  so  false  to  mod- 
ern readers.  Ulysses  summons  the  shades  from 
Tartarus,  and  the  first  who  appears  is  the  shade 
of  Elpenor,  whom  he  supposed  alive  and  at  some 
distance.     Ulysses  says,  very  naturally  : 

"  Elpenor !  How  earnest  thou  under  the  shadowy  dark- 
ness, 
Hast  thou  come  faster  on   foot  than   I  in  my  black 
ships?" 


246  ELEMENTS    OF    LITERARY    CRITICISM 

Which  Pope  travesties  : 

"  O,  say,  what  angry   power  Elpenor  led 
To  glide  with  shades  and   wander  with  the  dead? 
How  could  thy  soul,  by  realms  and  seas  disjoined, 
Outfly  the   nimble  sail  and  leave  the  lagging  wind?" 

Strictly  speaking,  there  is  no  description  here 
of  living  agents,  yet  the  emotion  which  prompted 
the  question  of  Ulysses — horrified  astonishment 
— would  never  have  suggested  the  use  of  such  ad- 
jectives as  "nimble"  and  "lagging."  They  har- 
monize with  a  feeling  of  contentment  and  indo- 
lence. "  Nimble  sail "  is  preposterous  for  any 
mood. 

Applying  to  inanimate  things  any  characteristic 
trait  of  living  beings,  or  to  animals  human  quali- 
ties, as  if  these  sympathized  with  men,  is  called  by 
Mr.  Ruskin  "the  pathetic  fallacy."  "Nimble 
sail "  and  "  lagging  wind  "  are  instances  of  this. 
When  Coleridge  speaks  of 

"  The  one  red  leaf,  the  last  of  its  clan. 
That  dances  as  often  as  dance  it  can  " 

on  the  top  of  the  tree,  he  falls  into  this  fallacy  of 
attributing  to  the  leaf  feelings  of  restless  anima- 
tion, or,  as  Ruskin  says,  "  he  fancies  a  life  in  it 
and  will  which  there  are  not."  Again,  in  Kings- 
ley's  song,  the  lines, 

"  They  rowed  her  in  across  the  rolling  foam. 
The  cruel,  crawling  foam," 


THE    DKSCRTPTTVE    POWER  247 

embody  the  same  "  pathetic  fallacy."  "  The  foam 
is  not  cruel,  neither  does  it  crawl,"  says  Mr.  Rus- 
kin.     He  declares  that 

"The  state  of  mind  which  attributes  to  these  the  char- 
acteristics of  a  hving  creature  is  one  in  which  reason  is 
unhinged  by  grief.  All  violent  feelings  have  the  same 
effect.  They  produce  in  us  a  falseness  in  all  our  impres- 
sions of  external  things  which  I  would  generally  charac- 
terize as  the  '  pathetic  fallacy.'  " 

Now,  when  the  characteristics  are  harmonious 
with  the  state  of  mind  in  which  nature  is  ob- 
served, this  fallacy  is  not  displeasing,  because 
nature  is  described  as  seen  through  the  atmos- 
phere which  surrounds  a  human  soul,  and  this  is 
the  very  essence  of  artistic  description.  But  the 
moment  the  characteristics  attributed  to  nature 
are  not  such  as  the  emotion  grief,  desperation., 
awe,  joy,  or  whatever  't  may  be,  properly  calls 
for,  the  description  is  untrue,  weak,  inartistic,  dis- 
pleasing. Therefo/e,  the  "  cruel,  crawling  foam  " 
is  a  good  descriptive  epithet,  and  the  "nimble  saiV 
and  "  lagging  wind  "  are  not  descriptive  at  all. 

Mr.  Ruskin's  own  descriptions  furnish  exceller-t 
illustrations  of  the  "pathetic  fallacy,"  and  per 
haps  that  is  one  reason  why  they  are  so  admira- 
ble.     Ruskin   says,  describing  one  of  Turner's 
pictures — "The  Slave-ship": 

"  It  is  a  sunset '  on  the  Atlantic  after  a  prolonged 
storm  ;  but  the  storm  is  partially  lulled,  and  the  torn 


248         ele:ments  of  literary  criticism 

and  streaming  rain-clouds  are  moving  in  scarlet  lines  to 
lose  themselves  in  the  hollows  of  the  night.  The  whole 
surface  of  sea  included  in  the  picture  is  divided  into  two 
ridges  of  enormous  swell,  not  high,  not  local,  but  a  low, 
broad  heaving  of  the  whole  ocean,  like  the  lifting  of  its 
bosom  by  deep-drawn  breath  after  the  torture  of  the 
storm.  Between  these  two  ridges  the  fire  of  the  sunset 
falls  along  the  trough  of  the  sea,  dyeing  it  with  an  awful 
but  glorious  light,  the  intense  and  lurid  splendor  which 
burns  like  gold  and  bathes  like  blood.  Along  the  fiery 
path  and  valley  the  tossing  waves,  by  which  the  swell  of 
the  sea  is  restlessly  divided,  lift  themselves  in  dark,  in- 
definite, fantastic  forms,  each  casting  a  faint  and  ghastly 
shadovv  behind  it  along  the  illuminated  foam.  They  do 
not  rise  everywhere,  but  three  or  four  together  in  wild 
groups,  fretfully  and  furiously  as  the  understrength  of 
the  swell  compels  or  permits  them,  leaving  between 
them  treacherous  spaces  of  level  and  whirling  water, 
now  lighted  with  green  and  lamplike  fire,  now  flashing 
back  the  gold  of  the  declining  sun,  now  fearfully  dyed 
from  above  with  the  indistinguishable  images  of  the 
burning  clouds,  which  fall  upon  them  in  flakes  of  crim- 
son and  scarlet  and  give  to  the  reckless  waves  the  added 
motion  of  their  own  fiery  flying.  Purple  and  blue  the 
lurid  shadows  of  the  hollow  breakers  are  cast  upon  the 
mist  of  the  night,  which  gathers  low  and  cold,  advancing 
like  the  shadow  of  death  upon  the  guilty  ship  as  it  labors 
amidst  the  lightning  of  the  sea,  its  thin  masts  written 
upon  the  sky  in  lines  of  blood  girded  with  condemnation 
in  that  fearful  hue  which  signs  the  sky  with  horror  and 
mixes  its  flaming  flood  with  the  sunset,  and,  cast  far 
along  the  desolate  heave  of  the  sepulchral  waves,  incar- 
nadines the  multitudinous  sea." 


THE    DESCRIPTIVE    POWER  249 

That  description  is  overloaded  with  adjectives 
and  adverbs.  It  could  at  least  well  spare  "guilty 
ship  "  and  the  other  modifications  in  which  the 
fact  that  it  is  a  slave-ship,  and  that  her  human 
cargo  has  just  been  thrown  into  the  ocean  to 
avoid  detection,  is  treated  as  sending  a  thrill  of 
horror  through  the  sky  and  sea.  The  "  pathetic 
fallacy,"  or  imputing  to  nature  sympathy  with 
the  emotional  mood  through  which  it  is  seen,  is 
a  scientific  fallacy,  but  a  true  artistic  method. 
But  to  those  who  cannot  help  feeling — not  see- 
ing— in  nature  the  manifestation  of  an  inscru- 
table intelligence,  it  is  not  a  fallacy  at  all.  It 
forms  a  part  of  every  impression  they  receive 
when  the  image  of  her  fair  and  noble  forms,  the 
petal  of  the  flower,  the  wind-swept  plain,  or  the 
sleeping  ocean  is  presented  to  consciousness. 

It  would  be  instructive  to  note  the  different 
kinds  of  this  "  pathetic  fallacy."  The  ancients 
were  less  subject  to  it,  for  the  moment  they 
viewed  nature  emotionally  they  attributed  the 
sympathy  to  a  personal  and  local  deity,  and  not 
to  the  universal.  In  the  middle  ages  demons  and 
gnomes  and  fairies  took  the  place  of  Pan  and  the 
local  deities  as  intermediate  between  man  and 
nature.  Wordsworth  is  a  monotheist,  and  so  is 
Shelley,  but  the  tendency  to  interpose  spiritual 
agencies  between  man  and  nature  is  still  strong 
in  both,  although  the  emotional  medium  through 
which  they  see  the  world  is  so  radically  different 


250  ELEMENTS    OF    LTTERAKV    CRITICISM 

that  it  almost  seems  as  if  they  described  different 
worlds.  How  different  again  is  Hawthorne's 
world  from  Ste-venson's  !  But  each  description 
is  made  vivid  and  real  by  the  emotional  individ- 
uality of  the  writer.  Without  emotion  the  de- 
scription makes  no  picture.  But  emotion  must 
be  true,  natural,  and  sustained,  or  the  picture  is 
false,  feeble,  and  inconsistent. 

To  show  that  the  emotional  medium  is  neces- 
sary to  the  construction  of  a  description  that 
shall  present  any  living  image,  and  that  an  inven- 
tory is  ineffective,  however  accurate,  consider 
Mr.  Ruskin's  description  of  the  Rhone,  at  Gene- 
va. It  is  as  accurate  as  possible,  but  the  pathetic 
fallacy  being  entirely  suppressed  no  illusion  is 
created. 

"  The  sunlight  falls  from  the  cypresses  of  Rousseau's 
island  straight  towards  the  bridge.  The  shadows  of  the 
bridge  and  the  trees  fall  on  the  water  in  leaden  purple, 
opposed  to  its  general  hue  of  aquamarine  green.  This 
green  color  is  caused  by  the  light  being  reflected  from 
the  bottom,  though,  the  bottom  is  not  seen,  as  is  evident 
by  its  becoming  paler  towards  the  middle  of  the  river, 
on  which  pale  part  the  purple  shadow  of  the  small  bridge 
falls  most  forcibly,  which  shadow  is  still,  however,  only 
apparent,  being  the  absence  of  this  reflected  light  asso- 
ciated with  tlie  increased  reflective  power  of  the  water 
which  in  those  spaces  reflects  blue  sky  above.  A  boat 
swings  in  the  shoal  water,  its  reflection  is  cast  in  a  trans- 
parent pea-green,  which  is  considerably  darker  than  the 


THE    DESCRIPTIVE    POWER  25 1 

pale  aquamarine  of  the  surface  at  the  spot.  Its  shadow 
is  detached  from  it  just  about  half  the  depth  of  the  re- 
flection, which  therefore  forms  a  bright  green  light  be- 
tween the  keel  of  the  boat  and  its  shadow ;  where  the 
shadow  cuts  the  reflection,  the  reflection  is  darkest  and 
something  like  the  true  color  of  the  boat;  where  the 
shadow  falls  out  of  the  reflection,  it  is  of  a  leaden  purple. 
The  boat  is  at  an  angle  of  about  20"  below.  Another 
boat  in  deeper  water  shows  no  shadow,  whatsoever,  and 
the  reflection  is  marked  by  its  transparent  green,  while 
the  surrounding  water  takes  a  lightish  blue  reflection 
from  the  sky." 

The  above  is  a  realistic  description,  absolutely- 
truthful,  and  giving  as  many  of  the  manifold 
facts  of  nature  as  could  be  compressed  into  the 
words.  There  is  no  hint  of  any  emotional  bond 
between  subject  and  object.  The  subjective,  the 
personal,  is  entirely  ignored.  The  scene  is  taken 
into  the  eye,  not  into  the  soul.  Nothing  more 
scientific  can  be  found  in  the  papers  of  the  Brit- 
ish Association.  And  in  consequence  the  descrip- 
tion is  absolutely  dead.  It  calls  up  no  picture. 
It  is  powerless,  like  all  description,  all  exposition, 
all  argument  from  which  the  human  element  is 
excluded.  One  is  almost  tempted  to  utter  the 
heresy, "  better  false  emotion,  better  affected  emo- 
tion than  no  emotion  at  all,"  except  in  arithmetic. 

The  pathetic  fallacy,  if  a  fallacy  at  all,  is  less 
forced  when  it  appears  in  descriptions  of  an  inte- 
rior.  A  room  or  a  house  or  even  a  city  is  the  prod- 


252  ELEMENTS    OF    LITERARY    CRITICISM 

uct  of  human  hands,  and  is  naturally  characterized 
as  bright  or  gloomy,  cheerful  or  joyless  and  sor- 
did. Such  things  reflect  human  character  direct- 
ly. The  differences  of  the  writer's  stand-points, 
however,  affect  such  descriptions  no  less  than  they 
affect  descriptions  of  out-door  nature.  Dickens 
and  Thackeray  describe  London  streets  so  as  to 
make  an  entirely  different  impression  on  their 
readers.  One  great  element  of  power  is  keenness 
of  observation.  In  this  no  one  is  superior  to 
Dickens.  He  sees  so  many  points  at  a  glance 
that  his  descriptions  are  sometimes  overloaded 
with  minutias.  The  next  element  of  power  is  to 
seize  the  characteristic  and  salient  points.  This 
is  the  poet's  way  of  seeing  things,  so  that  in  the 
poet's  description  we  recognize  truth.  He  calls 
our  attention  to  matters  we  have  often  looked  at 
but  never  seen.  We  become  so  familiar  with 
some  things  that  we  know  little  about  them. 
When  some  one  who  has  the  gift  of  perceptive 
observation  describes  them  to  us  our  eyes  are 
opened. 

The  human  face  and  figure  is  so  full  of  indi- 
viduality, and  the  differences  are  so  minute,  yet 
so  important,  that  it  is  a  difficult  subject  of  de- 
scription. Usually  the  merest  outlines  are  sug- 
gested and  the  impression  of  personal  appearance 
is  created  by  reference  to  the  impression  made 
on  others.  An  enumeration  of  details  is  abso- 
lutely ineffective  because  there  are  too  many  to 


THE    DESCRIPTIVE    POWER  253 

enumerate  and  not  words  enough  in  the  language 
to  embody  them.  In  Daniel  Dcronda,  George 
Eliot  manages  to  convey  to  her  readers  an  im- 
pression of  the  beauty  of  Gwendolen  Harleth,  al- 
though when  the  girl  is  first  brought  on  the  scene 
little  is  said  of  her  appearance.  Shakespeare 
says  little  of  the  personal  appearance  of  his  char- 
acters. Probably  he  relied  on  the  presence  of 
the  actor  to  create  the  image,  but  his  descrip- 
tions of  personal  appearance  are  almost  invari- 
ably of  the  indirect  kind.  Of  the  scene  his  de- 
scriptions are  sometimes  detailed,  as  the  theatre 
was  so  poorly  furnished  that  a  poetic  illusion 
must  be  created  by  words.  But  his  powers  were 
so  fused  in  an  artistic  temperament,  and  so  bal- 
anced, that  it  is  impossible  to  analyze  them.  The 
Forest  of  Arden  is  made  to  appear  the  very  es- 
sence of  out-door  nature,  but  we  cannot  say  how 
it  is  done. 

As  a  rule,  there  is  more  description  by  details 
in  modern  literature  than  in  older.  There  is 
very  little  in  the  English  ballad,  with  its  conven- 
tional epithets  and  its  intentness  on  the  narrative. 
Our  age  scrutinizes  things  more  closely  and  is 
more  accurate  in  its  records.  There  is  a  method 
of  cataloguing  details  to  be  found  exemplified  in 
many  of  our  modern  magazines,  very  much  used 
at  present,  and  sometimes  very  effective  on  a  low 
artistic  plane.  Bret  Harte's  California  scenery 
and   Miss    Murfree's    Tennessee    mountains   are 


254  ELEMENTS    OF    LITERARY    CRITICISM 

done  in  this  way.  Color  is  more  observed  and 
more  minute  differences  of  shade  are  particular- 
ized than  was  the  fashion  with  our  ancestors,  who 
had  not  discovered  twenty-four  shades  of  red  on 
a  single  maple  leaf,  and  who  would  have  been  en- 
tirely in  the  dark  as  to  what  is  meant  by  a  "  pun- 
gent red"  or  "gleams  of  piquant  green  in  a 
tawny  eye."  It  may  be,  however,  that  those 
phrases  do  not  correspond  to  anything  real,  and 
are  to  the  authors  mere  words.  If  so,  they  are 
dishonest. 

Description,  therefore,  depends  on  two  things — 
first,  on  the  power  of  observation,  the  attentive 
glance,  by  which  the  eye  notes  a  crowd  of  par- 
ticulars and  the  mind  is  at  once  arrested  by 
those  which  are  vital  to  the  whole,  and  rejects 
the  accidental  and  non-coherent ;  second,  on  the 
vision  which  recalls  this  whole  and  sets  it  in 
clear  light  before  the  memory,  from  whence  it 
may  be  transferred,  illuminated,  and  nobly  dis- 
closed by  "  the  light  that  never  was  on  land  or 
sea,  the  consecration  and  the  poet's  dream," 


CHAPTER    VIII 

THE    EMOTIONAL    POWER 

Emotional  intensity  is  not  a  literary  power 
any  more  than  philosophical  mental  constitution 
is.  It  is  the  motive  force  which  sets  powers  and 
aptitudes  at  work,  and  gives  them  energy  for 
accomplishment.  In  every-day  life  we  see  that 
an  excess  of  capacity  for  feeling  produces  the 
fanatic,  and  its  defect  the  temporizer.  Combined 
with  sanity  of  judgment  it  sometimes  results  in 
characters  of  high  Avorth  and  effectiveness,  warm- 
ed with  the  glow  of  a  central  fire  and  faithful  to 
central  convictions.  When  not  thus  balanced  it 
usually  prompts  to  rash  utterance,  to  one-sided 
opinions,  and  to  action  based  on  the  partial  view 
of  relative  duties  which  emotion  suggests.  If 
combined  with  literary  faculty,  it  gives  to  liter- 
ary utterance  a  peculiar  power  which  painstaking 
can  never  reach.  Sometimes  it  gives  the  accent 
of  seriousness,  sometimes  the  accent  of  enthusi- 
astic excitement,  but  always  the  accent  of  truth. 
We  see  that  at  the  bottom  the  writer  is  in  earnest, 
and  at  once  fee!  respect,  even  if  we  disagree  with 


256  ELEMENTS    OF    LITERARY    CRITICISM 

him.  If  a  writer  would  be  interesting,  he  must 
himself  take  interest  in  his  subject-matter  ;  if  a 
passionate  interest,  so  much  the  better,  for  there 
is  nothing  so  tedious  as  the  indifferentism  whose 
inmost  belief  is,  "  Oh,  it  doesn't  much  matter." 
Intense  partisanship  even  on  the  wrong  side,  if 
it  be  honest,  is  preferable  in  a  book  to  intellect- 
ual quiescence  obtained  by  lack  of  sensitiveness. 
Imagmation  quickened  by  emotion  is  vivid  ;  with- 
out some  feeling,  imagination  is  dreamy  and  in- 
dolent, and  its  tender  and  plaintive  charm  cannot 
arouse  and  incite  as  does  a  strong  but  regulated 
enthusiasm. 

The  emotion  which  pulsates  in  the  verse  of  a 
poet  must  have  a  moral  or  an  aesthetic  base.  If 
it  is  called  out  simply  by  keen  perception  of  in- 
jury to  the  self,  or  keen  sense  of  the  enjoyment 
of  life,  as  in  some  of  Villon's  ballades,  it  may  give 
the  verse  vigor  and  picLuresqueness,  but  it  needs 
a  broader,  nobler  feeling  to  give  it  power  and 
reach.  Embodied  selfishness  or  egotism  may  be 
literary  in  the  sense  of  being  amusing,  but  it  is 
not  artistic  in  the  sense  of  being  elevating. 

Moral  emotion  rests  on  our  sense  of  the  good, 
the  right,  the  true.  It  may  express  itself  in  en- 
thusiasm for  what  is  noble,  or,  on  the  other  hand, 
in  indignation  at  cruelty,  injustice,  and  stupidity, 
in  which  case  it  takes  the  form  of  satire,  social 
or  political.  Again,  it  may  be  of  the  kind  which 
is  excited  by  concrete  examples  of  suffering — to 


THE    EMOTIONAL    POWER  257 

this  all  humanity  is  by  nature  subject — or  it  may 
be  of  the  kind  to  which  universal  principles  ap- 
peal almost  with  the  force  of  actualities,  and  this 
is  the  temper  of  the  great  priests  and  the  great 
philanthropists,  the  men  who  live  in  the  spirit. 

^Esthetic  emotion  is  excited  by  a  perception 
of  the  loveliness  and  majesty  of  the  world,  and 
is  based  on  an  affinity  in  the  soul  for  that  quality 
or  governing  principle  of  the  material  universe 
which  we  call  beauty.  Its  manifestations  are  so 
various  that  some  of  them  appeal  to  the  minds 
of  one  constitution  and  some  of  them  to  minds 
widely  different.  One  poet  is  delicately  sensitive 
to  the  charm  of  a  quiet  rural  landscape,  but  is 
almost  blind  to  human  embodiments  of  the  beau- 
tiful in  painting  or  any  other  art,  feeling  only  a 
vague  respect  for  something  he  knows  is  great 
art  but  does  not  love.  Coleridge  and  Shelley  had 
no  appreciation  of  music  beyond  the  vague  sense 
of  melody  common  to  all  of  us.  The  sensuous 
delight  in  beautiful  things  is  quite  distinct  from 
enthusiastic  regard  and  reverence  for  the  princi- 
ple, though  either  may  be  the  inspiration  of  verse. 
And  a  minor  distinction  which  characterizes  lit- 
erary treatment  is  that  some  persons  are  more 
sensitive  to  beauty  of  form  and  others  to  beauty 
of  color.  These  various  susceptibilities  to  em- 
bodiments of  the  beautiful  are  blended  in  so 
many  different  proportions  that  real  poets  are 
distinct  and  original  in  imaginative  treatment 
17 


258  ELEMENTS    OF    LITERARY    CRITICISM 

of  the  same  subject-matter,  but  in  all  cases  emo- 
tional intensity,  though  called  into  activity  by 
different  causes  and  the  product  of  widely  differ- 
ent temperaments,  is  one  secret  of  power.  In 
poetry  a  man  must  be  an  advocate,  a  passionate, 
earnest  advocate.  He  must  feel  wonder  and  ad- 
miration. If  he  is  judicial,  unprejudiced,  cos- 
mopolitan, he  may  write  instructive,  scientific 
prose,  possibly  intellectual,  finished  verse,  but 
not  poetry.  He  will  be  a  safe  guide,  but  no  one 
will  follow  him,  because  he  makes  no  appeal. 
Certain  singers  have  a  vibrant,  thrilling  quality 
of  voice,  called  sympathetic.  This  quality  pro- 
duces effects  quite  out  of  the  reach  of  the  power 
of  perfect  technique.  In  much  the  same  way  that 
which  is  written  in  excitement  creates  excitement. 
The  warm,  intense,  earnest  nature  combined  with 
strength  and  artistic  self-restraint  results  in  the 
poetic  vision,  which  sees  things  in  new  relations 
and  catches  a  glimpse  of  reality. 

It  must  not  be  supposed  that  capacity  for  moral 
emotion  and  for  aesthetic  emotion  are  in  anyway 
incompatible  ;  in  fact,  they  are  cognate,  and  in 
literary  artists  are  usually  conjoined.  The  Puri- 
tan ideal  was  as  much  distorted  by  divorcing  en- 
thusiasm for  the  good  from  enthusiasm  for  the 
concrete  beautiful  as  by  the  one-sided  character 
of  its  standard  of  right  conduct.  Certain  aspects 
of  the  beauty  embodied  in  things  are  closely  allied 
to  moral  elevation,  so  that  with  no  sense  of  incon- 


THE    EMOTIONAL   POWER  259 

gruity  we  speak  of  moral  beauty,  and  say  of  a 
character  in  which  there  is  a  balance  of  strength, 
rectitude,  and  unselfishness,  that  is  "a  beautiful 
character."  The  impression  of  repose,  steadfast- 
ness, and  superiority  to  change  that  is  given  by 
a  mountain  has  a  likeness  to  the  impression  we 
receive  from  a  perception  of  the  unchangeable, 
unconquerable  nature  of  moral  principle.  There- 
fore a  poet  who,  like  Wordsworth,  is  emotionally 
excited  by  the  idea  of  moral  strength  is  likely  to 
be  stirred  by  the  grand,  calm,  primitive  face  of 
nature  in  much  the  same  way.  Both  are  kindred 
to  him.  Byron  deifies  unchecked  force  in  the 
mountain  torrent  and  in  the  rebellious,  self-suffi- 
cient will.  It  is  true  that  nature  is  entirely  un- 
ethical. The  stars  in  their  courses  know  no  right 
nor  wrong.  The  law  of  gravitation  is  mechani- 
cal, not  moral.  The  tiger  is  neither  just  nor 
unjust,  but  it  is  almost  impossible  to  divert  our 
conceptions  of  nature's  forces  and  nature's  em- 
bodiments from  the  ideas  of  intelligence  and  in- 
tention which  we  attribute  to  a  personality.  The 
poet  will  therefore  usually  be  found  responsive 
to  ethical  emotion  and  to  aesthetic  emotion  equal- 
ly, and  there  will  be  a  similarity  between  the 
exciting  causes  of  his  feeling  in  the  realm  of  the 
moral  and  in  the  realm  of  the  beautiful. 

It  must  be  remembered  that  the  rule  that  en- 
thusiasm for  a  certain  aspect  of  the  beautiful  im- 
plies a  kindred  enthusiasm  for  the  cognate  aspect 


26o  ELEMENTS   OF    LITERARY   CRITICISM 

of  the  good  is  not  absolute.  Those  whose  ad- 
miration for  technical  skill  has  been  exclusively 
cultivated  sometimes  forget  the  character  of  the 
matter  which  technical  skill  has  put  into  artistic 
form.  For  them  nature  is  interesting  as  some- 
thing to  be  copied,  and  the  little  piece  taken  has 
a  practical  relation  to  the  artist  as  material  and 
no  relation  to  the  universal.  The  interesting 
thing  to  them  is  the  way  the  work  is  done.  The 
ma.xim,  "Art  for  art's  sake,"  implies  that  techni- 
cal art  is  a  sufficient  basis  for  enthusiasm.  The 
intellectual  and  emotional  narrowing  of  the  art 
impulse  is  not  confined  to  modern  France,  al- 
though it  is  more  germane  to  the  French  than 
to  the  English  mind.  It  is  not  necessarily  right 
because  it  is  modern,  for  literature  differs  from 
mechanics  in  that  the  practice  and  theory  of  the 
past  is  in  it  of  precisely  as  much  value  as  that  of 
the  present,  but  in  mechanics  antiquated  practice 
and  theory  are  valueless.  And  the  law  that  there 
is  a  subtle  connection  between  aesthetic  tone  and 
ethical  tone,  if  not  absolute,  is  as  well  established 
as  any  law  can  be  in  the  history  of  the  endeavors 
of  the  human  mind  to  express  itself  through  art- 
forms.  In  art  we  have  no  right  to  regard  the 
past  as  old-fashioned. 

Shakespeare  was  capable  of  feeling  and  ex- 
pressing almost  all  of  the  complex  emotions  to 
which  the  human  heart  is  susceptible,  although 
he  reveals  little  or  nothing  of  his  personality.    It 


THE    EMOTIONAL    POWER  26 1 

is  impossible  to  believe  that  he  did  not  love 
Hamlet  and  hate  lago,  or  that  he  was  not  enthu- 
siastic over  Juliet  or  stirred  to  the  very  roots  of 
his  being  by  love  and  reverence  for  Imogen  and 
Miranda.  We  can  feel  sure  of  one  thing,  that  he 
felt  a  keen  and  passionate  interest  in  human  nat- 
ure. When  he  talked  with  his  friends  he  felt  how 
they  felt.  When  he  read  Plutai'cJi.  or  some  poem 
or  story  in  which  unreal  figures  grotesquely  mim- 
icked humanity,  he  at  once  filled  it  with  men  and 
women.  This  power  comes  from  sympathy,  from 
emotional  ability  to  enter  into  the  being  of  others, 
not  from  intellectual  comprehension.  The  sym- 
pathetic capacity  is  receptive,  the  cold  heart  and 
active  brain  do  not  understand.  In  Shakespeare 
the  power  of  divining  by  sympathy  was  united 
to  the  intellectual  power  of  making  a  consistent 
synthesis  of  all  the  character  elements  perceived. 
That  Shakespeare  ever  felt  personally  any  of 
the  emotional  suffering  he  has  depicted  does  not 
at  all  follow.  Certainly  he  never  underwent  the 
trials  of  Timon,  or  Lear,  or  Macbeth,  though  he 
may  have  felt  as  Hamlet  felt.  Personal  experi- 
ence is  a  great  educator,  but  sympathy  enables 
one  to  learn  from  the  experience  of  others,  or 
even  from  imagined  experience.  There  is  noth- 
ing to  show  that  Shakespeare's  life  was  not  one 
of  commonplace  prosperity  after  he  was  twenty- 
seven,  and  of  commonplace  folly  before  he  was 
twenty.    We  know  little  of  his  real  life-experience. 


262  ELEMENTS    OF    LITERARY    CRITICISM 

Some  expressions  in  the  Sonnets  do  seem  to  come 
from  a  heart  wrung  by  a  love,  regret,  shame  and 
despair  so  passionate  that  it  must  have  been  per- 
sonal. But  we  have  no  right  to  infer  anything 
from  poetry  except  poetic  power  even  when  the 
writer  uses  the  first  person.  However,  whether 
the  Sonnets  are  autobiographic  or  not,  they,  in 
common  with  the  plays,  show  that  Shakespeare 
possessed  a  knowledge  of  the  subtle  and  profound 
manifestations  of  emotional  force  in  human  char- 
acters which  is  perhaps  more  remarkable  than 
any  of  his  other  powers.  With  the  exception  of 
religious  ecstasy,  a  phase  perhaps  not  practically 
suited  to  dramatic  presentation,  he  has  charted 
the  depths  and  shallows  and  currents  and  storm- 
centres  of  the  entire  sea.  The  heart  of  young 
womanhood  he  read  by  profound  sympathy.  He 
makes  no  parade  of  his  feelings,  but  it  is  impos- 
sible to  believe  that  he  did  not  love  Miranda  and 
Perdita  with  enthusiasm.  The  creation  of  such 
characters  is  not  a  matter  of  cool  intelligence 
and  technical  skill  alone.  The  thought  of  them 
stirs  the  hearts  of  men  because  it  once  stirred 
Shakespeare's. 

John  Milton,  the  next  poet  whom  we  shall  con- 
sider, was  of  a  temperament  more  susceptible  to 
moral  than  to  assthetic  enthusiasm,  and  education 
and  force  of  circumstances  developed  in  him  an 
austere  love  for  the  ideal  of  righteousness  at  the 
expense  of  love  for  the  beautiful  dissociated  from 


THE    EMOTIONAL    POWER  263 

the  moral.  In  his  poems  before  the  great  Puri- 
tan triumph,  especially  in  L Allegro  and  //  Pen- 
seroso,  we  see  him  lingering  over  the  quiet  charms 
of  nature  and  art  with  the  fondness  of  a  lover. 
Nothing  that  made  life  in  England  full  and  rich 
and  beautiful  escapes  him.  He  sees  everything 
set  in  historic  associations.  With  wonderful  ar- 
tistic self-restraint  he  discloses  to  us  the  cathe- 
dral: 

"The  storied  windows  richly  dight, 
Casting  a  dim,  religious  light," 

and  the  loveliness  of  rural  scenes,  by  a  word  or 
two  which  shows  how  he  felt  the  essential  charm 
and  harmony  of  all,  and  he  makes  us  feel  what 
he  felt.  But  as  he  grew  older  the  stern  linea- 
ments of  Justice  and  Duty  grew  more  attractive 
to  him,  and  personal  delight  in  this  beautiful 
world  something  of  less  moment.  In  Lycidas 
there  is  no  expression  of  personal  grief ;  perhaps 
there  was  no  personal  loss  felt.  At  first  the  feel- 
ing is  abstract,  an  expression  of  mourning  for 
Edward  King  as  a  type  of  gracious  promise  lost, 
for  which  he  feels  the  need  of  "some  melodious 
tear."  But  when  St.  Peter  appears  among  the 
speakers,  and  the  contrast  is  drawn  between 
what  Edward  King  might  have  become  and  what 
some  faithless  and  worldly  priests  were,  as  soon 
as  Milton  thinks  of  the  traitors  and  cowards  in 
the  conflict  between  righteousness  and  unright- 


264  ELEMENTS    OF    LITERARY    CRITICISM 

eousness,  emotion  takes  possession  of  him,  his 
wrath  flames  up,  and  he  writes  from  his  heart 
the  passage  in  which  every  line  is  alive  with  in- 
dignation : 

"  How  well  could  I  have  spared  for  thee,  young  swain. 
Enow  of  such  as  for  their  bellies'  sake 
Creep,  and  intrude,  and  climb  into  the  fold! 
Of  other  care  they  little  reckoning  make. 
Than  how  to  scramble  at  the  shearers'  feast. 
And  shove  away  the  worthy  bidden  guest. 
Blind  mouths!  that  scarce  themselves  know  how  to 

hold 
A  sheep-hook,  or  have  learned  aught  else,  the  least 
That  to  the  faithful  herdsman's  art  belongs! 
What  recks  it  them?    What  need  they?  they  are  sped; 
And  when  they  list,  their  lean  and  flashy  songs 
Grate  on  their  scrannel  pipes  of  wretched  straw  ; 
The  hungry  sheep  look  up  and   are  not  fed, 
But  swollen  with  wind  and  the  rank  mist  they  draw, 
Rot  inwardly,  and  foul  contagion  spread  ; 
Besides  what  the  grim  wolf  with  privy  paw 
Daily  devours  apace  and  nothing  said: 
But  that  two-handed  engine  at  the  door 
Stands  ready  to  sinite  ojice,  and  smite  no  more." 

The  emotion  makes  the  image  of  the  axe  of  the 
reformation  seem  as  formidable  as  the  flaming 
sword  of  the  angel  that  guarded  the  gates  of 
Paradise.  As  a  rule,  Milton's  poetic  tempera- 
ment is  equable  and  elevated.  One  of  his  son- 
nets : 


THE    EMOTIONAL    POWER  265 

"Avenge,  O  Lord,  thy  slaughtered  saints  whose  bones 
Lie  scattered  on  the  Alpine  mountains  cold," 

it  is  true,  is  alive  with  righteous  indignation. 
Prose  he  probably  did  not  regard  as  an  artistic 
product ;  consequently,  he  is  not  restrained  by 
his  artistic  sense.  Magnificent  passages  abound 
in  it,  but  his  anger  and  contempt  disfigure  his 
pages  with  personalities  and  extravagance,  even 
when  he  is  writing  Latin.  Some  allowance  must 
be  made  for  the  controversial  manners  of  the 
day,  but  it  is  evident  that  when  a  great  artist  de- 
scends to  a  personal  invective,  he  attempts  a  task 
unworthy  of  him  and  fails  of  producing  great 
literature,  though  anger  lends  force  and  point  to 
his  words.  The  object  of  his  wrath  is  temporary, 
the  inciting  cause  is  an  individual  whose  name 
represents  nothing  to  us.  If,  on  the  contrary, 
his  indignation  is  stirred  by  violation  of  a  prin- 
ciple, our  sympathy  with  his  emotion  is  at  once 
aroused,  for  the  principle  is  immortal  and  possi- 
bly is  an  object  of  quite  as  much  interest  to  us 
as  it  was  to  him.  Controversial  literature  is  apt 
to  be  taken  up  with  trivial  matters,  except  in  the 
hands  of  a  very  great  man  like  Webster,  who,  in 
his  reply  to  Hayne,  rises  above  the  personalities 
of  the  hour.  A  man  of  the  quick  emotions  of 
the  poet  can  hardly  do  this  unless  his  artistic 
sense  of  the  dignity  of  verse  restrains  his. expres- 
sion. 


266  ELEMENTS    OF    LITERARY    CRITICISM 

Alexander  Pope  was  a  man  of  quick  sensibil- 
ity— prone  to  take  offence,  nervous,  irritable,  ex- 
citable— but  neither  his  aesthetic  nor  his  moral 
sensibility  was  of  a  high  order.  The  phrasal 
power  he  possessed  in  perhaps  as  high  a  degree 
as  any  man  who  ever  lived.  He  is  alive  to  the 
beauty  and  fitness  of  language  as  an  intellectual 
instrument.  But,  from  the  moral  point  of  view, 
we  cannot  find  that  the  bitterness  of  life  op- 
pressed his  spirit  nor  that  the  beauty  of  right- 
eousness enraptured  it.  Nor  from  the  aesthetic 
point  of  view  was  he  roused  to  ecstatic  emotion 
either  by  the  beauty  of  nature  or  the  beauty  of 
art.  He  lacked  the  emotional  sensibility  of  the 
poet.  But  even  in  his  case  his  verse  is  at  its 
best  when  he  is  under  the  influence  of  strong 
feeling,  even  if  it  be  only  the  petty  spite  which 
makes  the  Dunciad  bitter  with  vigorous  life.  His 
jealousy  of  Addison  is  unworthy  a  man  of  let- 
ters, but  it  is  the  inspiration  of  the  best  verse 
he  wrote.  That  celebrated  passage  has  a  glow 
worthy  of  a  higher  feeling.  How  great  it  would 
be  were  it  the  outpouring  of  noble  emotion  ! 

"  Peace  to  all  such,  but  were  there  one  whose  fires 
True  genius  kindles  and  fair  fame  inspires, 
Bless'd  with  each  talent  and  each  art  to  please, 
And  born  to  write,  converse,  and  live  with  ease. 
Should  such  a  man,  too  fond  to  rule  alone, 
Bear  like  the  Turk  no  brother  near  the  throne, 


THE    EMOTIONAL    POWER  267 

View  him  with  scornful  yet  with  jealous  eyes, 
And  hate  for  arts  that  caused  himself  to  rise 
Damn  with  faint  praise,  assent  with  civil  leer, 
And  without  sneering  teach  the  rest  to  sneer. 
Willing  to  wound  and  yet  afraid  to  strike, 
Just  hint  a  fault  and  hesitate  dislike. 
Alike  reserved  to  blame  or  to  commend 
A  timorous  foe  and  a  suspicious  friend. 
Dreading  e'en  fools,  by  flatterers  besieged. 
And  so  obliging  that  he  ne'er  obliged  ; 
Like  Cato  give  his  little  senate  laws, 
And  sit  attentive  to  his  own  applause, 
While  wits  and  Templars  every  sentence   raise, 
And  wonder  with  a  foolish   force  of  praise. 
Who  but  must  laugh  if  such  a  man  there  be? 
Who  would  not  weep  if  Atticus  were  he?" 

These  lines  are  characterized  by  force,  vigor, 
and  directness.  Btit  the  animus  is  evident.  They 
are  directed  against  an  individual.  They  have 
their  source  in  egotism,  the  narrow  egotism  of 
selfishness,  not  the  broad  egotism  of  a  nature  ex- 
cited by  the  thought  of  the  noble,  the  universal, 
the  divine.  We  cannot  conceive  of  Shakespeare 
writing  in  such  a  vein,  nor  Wordsworth,  nor 
Scott,  nor  Longfellow,  nor  Lowell,  when  "their 
singing  robes  were  on."  Byron  might  have  done 
so,  or  Swinburne,  but  the  higher  natures  when 
excited  rise  above  the  contemplation  of  the  in- 
dividual. When  the  artist  is  petty,  "  so  much  the 
less  artist,  he." 


268  ELEMENTS    OF    LITERARY    CRITICISM 

A  more  unselfish  man  than  Shelley  never  lived, 
nor  one  whose  feelings  were  more  readily  aroused. 
His  emotional  susceptibility  is  of  entirely  differ- 
ent order  from  Pope's.  His  indignation  is  roused 
by  injustice  to  another.  Not  only  is  the  thought 
of  self  entirely  in  the  background,  but  the  ob- 
noxious individual  against  whom  the  invective 
is  directed  becomes  lost  in  the  abstraction  which 
he  represents.  In  the  Adonais  it  is  not  Keats 
whom  Shelley  laments,  but  Poetry.  It  is  not 
Gifford  whom  he  lashes,  but  injustice,  cruelty, 
stupidity.  He  grieves  over  the  sorrow  and  pain 
of  the  world  because  a  poet  is  dead,  a  poet  who 
could  have  done  something  to  alleviate  the 
wretchedness  and  the  brutality  of  men.  The 
analogy  between  his  own  life  and  that  of  Keats 
stirs  his  soul.  He  mentions  no  names  because 
he  has  no  feeling  for  individuals,  only  for  the 
eternal  cause,  the  battle  between  the  eagle  and 
the  serpent.  His  emotion  is  so  intense  that  he  is 
carried  at  once  beyond  the  mundane  into  the 
realm  of  the  everlasting  powers.  He  invokes 
Urania,  the  goddess  representing  the  divine  prin- 
ciple of  love,  the  elemental  source  : 

"That  Light  whose  smiles  kindle  the  Universe, 
That   beauty  in  which  all  things  work  and  move." 

It  was  to  her  that  the  wrong  had  been  done 
in  the  death  of  one  of  the  priests  of  the  beau- 


THE    EMOTIONAL    POWER  269 

tiful,  one  of  the  rare  souls,  her  messengers  to 
earth  : 

"  Thy  youngest,  dearest  one  has  perished. 
The  nursling  of  thy  widowhood." 

When  she  comes  she  cries  : 

"  O,  gentle  child,  beautiful  as  thou  wert, 
Why  didst  thou  leave  the  trodden  paths   of  men, 
Too  soon  and  with  weak  hands  though  mighty  heart 
Dare  the  unpastured   dragon   in  his  den, 
Defenceless  as  thou  wert?     Oh!  where  was  then 
Wisdom,  the  mirrored  shield,  or  scorn,  the  spear? 
Or  hadst  thou   waited  the  full  cycle  when 
Thy  spirit  should  have  filled  its  crescent  sphere, 
The  monsters  of  life's  waste  had  fled  from  thee  like 
deer." 

Again  : 

"The  herded  wolves,  bold  only  to  pursue, 
The  obscene  ravens,  clamorous  o'er  the  dead, 
The  vultures,  to  the  conqueror's  banner  true. 
Who  feed  when  desolation  first  had  fed," 

are  to  Shelley,  not  a  particular  set  of  living  men, 
but  rather  the  principles  of  stupidity,  greed,  and 
selfishness,  which  manifest  themselves  in  society 
in  continual  conflict  with  righteousness,  love,  and 
spiritual  illumination.  He  refers  to  Gifford,  whose 
review  he  believed  —  perhaps  erroneously,  for 
Keats  was  too  much  of  a  man  to  be  deeply  hurt 


270  ELEMENTS    OF    LITERARY    CRITICISM 

by  the  mistakes  of  the  unintelligent  —  to  have 
hastened  the  death  of  the  young  poet,  but  once, 
and  then  with  contempt  rather  than  anger  : 

"Live  thou  whose  infamy  is  not  thy  fame, 
■Live!  fear  no  heavier  chastisement  from   me 
Thou  noteless  blot  on  a  remembered  name! 
But  be  thyself,  and  know  thyself  to  be, 
And  ever  at  thy  season  be  thou  free 
To  spill  thy  venom  when  thy  fangs  o'erflow, 
Remorse  and  self-contempt  shall  cling  to  thee, 
Hot  shame  shall  burn  upon  thy  secret  brow, 
And  like  a  beaten  hound,  tremble  thou  shalt,  as  now." 

This  poem  derives  its  greatness  from  the  ele- 
vation of  the  sentiment,  from  the  fact  that  the 
appeal  is  to  the  universal,  not  to  the  personal ; 
its  power  it  derives  from  the  intensity  of  the 
writer's  feeling.  He  could  not  have  been  more 
in  earnest — more  thrilled  in  every  fibre  of  his 
being  —  had  he  seen  the  embodiments  of  the 
spiritual  forces  face  to  face.  The  musical  lines, 
the  beautiful  phrases,  may  appeal  to  our  sense 
of  the  beautiful  in  form,  but  the  passion  they  en- 
fold, to  which  they  are  secondary,  appeals  to  our 
sense  of  the  beautiful  in  essence.  Emotional  ex- 
citement roused  by  the  perception  of  ethical  law, 
by  contact  with  the  universal,  makes  the  Book  of 
Job  a  revelation.  Through  the  same  cause,  Shel- 
ley rose  in  spirit  to  the  poetic  vision,  a  height  at- 


THE    EMOTIONAL    POWER  27 1 

tained  by  few  poets,  though  it  is  only  as  they 
strive  to  reach  it  that  any  deserve  the  name. 

The  highest  and  noblest  poetic  mood  is  that 
induced  by  contemplation  of  the  broad  reaches 
of  the  universal.  But  the  hardly  inferior  is  the 
fine  frenzy  in  the  soul  of  the  poet  aroused  by  the 
embodied  beautiful  in  nature  or  in  art.  He  feels 
the  joy  of  life  in  this  concrete  world,  in  which 
the  universal  is  manifested,  or  he  is  roused  to 
delighted  sympathy  with  the  creative  instinct  of 
humanity  by  the  sight  of  things  in  which  men 
have  labored  to  embody  sentiments  kindred  to 
his  own.  Of  the  poets  of  the  first  class  Burns 
and  Wordsworth  may  be  taken  as  examples,  and 
of  the  second,  Rossetti.  In  no  two  men  is  this 
mood  identical,  since  emotional  responsiveness 
is  an  intirhate  quality  of  the  personality.  A 
broad  division  might  be  made  into  men  who  de- 
light chiefly  in  beauty  of  form  and  those  who 
delight  chiefly  in  beauty  of  color,  but  this  must 
be  for  the  present  neglected.  Let  us  consider 
for  a  moment  the  emotional  quality  of  the  poet 
Burns,  of  whom  Carlyle  says  : 

"  He  is  tender  and  he  is  vehement,  yet  without  con- 
straint or  too  visible  eflfort ;  he  melts  the  heart  or  in- 
flames it  with  a  power  which  seems  habitual  and  familiar 
to  him.  We  see  in  him  the  gentleness,  the  trembling 
pity  of  a  woman,  with  the  deep  earnestness,  the  force, 
and  passionate  ardor  of  a  hero.  Tears  lie  in  him  and 
consuming  fire.  He  has  a  resonance  in  his  bosom  for 
every  note  of  human  feeling." 


272  ELEMENTS    OF    LITERARV    CRITICISM 

This  is  too  much  to  say  of  Burns.  In  fact, 
Shakespeare  is  the  onl\'  man  of  whom  it  can  be 
said.  Burns  was  a  song-writer,  and  hearty  sym- 
pathy with  the  ordinary  range  of  human  sympa- 
thies is  necessary  to  the  popular  song-writer,  and 
intense  interest  in  the  obscure  problems  of  hu- 
man nature  Avould  be  harmful  to  him.  Burns 
was  a  man  of  quick,  passionate  sympathies.  Scott 
says  : 

"  There  was  a  strong  expression  of  sense  and  shrewd- 
ness in  all  his  lineaments ;  the  eye  alone,  I  think,  indicated 
the  poetical  character  and  temperament.  It  was  large 
and  of  a  dark  cast  which  glowed — I  say  \iX.Qra.\\y  glowed 
—when  he  spoke  with  feeling  or  interest." 

But  we  do  not  need  this  testimony  nor  the 
statement  that  he  shed  tears  over  a  print  repre- 
senting a  soldier's  widow  and  orphan,  for  his  sen- 
sibility is  evident  in  every  line  of  his  verse.  It 
is  called  out  by  the  weak,  the  helpless,  the  op- 
pressed. It  is  personal,  and  for  something  be- 
fore his  eyes.  It  does  not  go  back  to  the  princi- 
ple, but  is  confined  to  the  embodiment.  The 
eternal  conflict  between  the  eagle  and  the  ser- 
pent he  does  not  see.  The  suffering  of  the  indi- 
vidual wrings  Shelley's  heart,  but  he  sees  in  it  a 
violation  of  the  cosmic  order.  It  brings  tears  to 
Burns's  eyes,  but  he  does  not  look  beyond  the 
victim  and  the  oppressor  into  those  deeper  moral 
harmonies  which  are  the  laws  of  the  great  poet's 


THE    EMOTIONAL    POWER  273 

soul.  Burns  was  a  poet,  a  true  poet,  by  virtue 
of  his  musical  sense,  his  phrasal  power,  and  his 
quick  sympathies.  But  the  sympathies  of  the 
great  poet  are  more  universal  than  his  were,  his 
feelings  are  aroused  by  a  deeper  insight  into  the 
realities  of  the  world.  Burns's  cry  of  defiance 
against  the  inequalities  of  society  is  toned  by 
personal  animosity.  His  democracy  is  animated 
rather  by  a  jealousy  of  existing  aristocracy  than 
by  a  perception  of  the  worth  of  the  individual 
soul.  It  is  equality  in  external  conditions,  not 
equality  before  the  moral  law,  that  is  his  ideal  in 
A  Man's  a  Llan  for  a'  that.  The  true  poetic  in- 
tensity of  feeling  is  that  which  accompanies  in- 
sight, not  the  heat  kindled  by  some  visible,  tan- 
gible matter  brought  before  the  senses.  The 
central  fire  is  the  illuminated  imagination  to 
which  the  violation  of  abstract  justice  and  honor 
is  a  vital  matter. 

Burns  illustrates  the  principle  that  the  poet 
is  not  among  the  greatest  if  he  simply  feels  keen- 
ly and  expresses  his  feelings  melodiously,  but  he 
must  be  responsive  to  an  instinctive  honor  for 
the  abstract  moral  order.  He  illustrates,  too, 
the  principle  that  the  popular  poet  must  feel 
keenly  and  readily  all  the  ordinary  emotions 
and  sympathize  with  the  joys  and  griefs  of  his 
fello^^^-men  before  his  eyes  to  the  exclusion  of  the 
broader  metaphysical  anger  or  ecstasy.  Possibly 
this  is  the  temper  of  the  true  lyric  poet  who,  in- 
18 


274  ELEMENTS    OF    LITERARY    CRITICISM 

terpreting  the  surface  of  things,  pours  out  his 
emotion  in  a  bird-like  burst  of  song,  and  passes 
quickly  from  some  phase  of  tenderness  to  indig- 
nation, from  some  phase  of  joy  to  despair,  induced 
by  the  changing  aspects  of  the  external  world. 

In  sympathy  with  humble  things — with  the 
mountain  daisy  or  the  field-mouse — in  indignation 
against  common,  mean  hypocrisy  and  deceit,  no 
one  was  readier  than  Robert  Burns.  His  poems 
exactly  express  the  feeling  that  prompted  them, 
and  therefore  are  perfect.  Admirable  as  was  his 
wit,  his  best  poems  are  those  in  which  he  ex- 
presses emotion,  even  though  it  be  but  pity  for 
himself.  Patriotism,  love  for  Scotland,  was  the 
highest,  most  unselfish  feeling  he  experienced, 
and  Scots  zvha  liac  ivi  Wallace  Bled  is  his  great- 
est song.  His  emotion  is  genuine  as  far  as  it 
goes,  and  in  consequence  he  is  never  afifected. 
His  remorse  is  not  profound,  his  ecstasy  is  not 
divine,  but  such  as  they  were  they  were  not  sim- 
ulated, they  were  felt  for  the  moment,  they  were 
real  while  they  lasted,  and,  in  consequence,  his 
verse  appeals  to  as  large  a  number  of  men  as 
that  of  any  poet  who  ever  lived,  and  will  continue 
to  do  so  until  the  dialect  in  which  it  is  written  is 
forgotten.  The  epitaph  he  wrote  for  himself  ex- 
presses his  character  truly  : 

"The  poor  inhabitant  below 
Was  quick  to  learn  and  wise  to  know, 
And  keenly  felc  the  friendly  glow 


THE    EMOTIONAL    POWER  275 

And  softer  flame, 
But  thoughtless  folHes  laid  him  low, 
And  stained  his  name." 

Had  his  nature  been  capable  of  a  wider  range 
of  emotion,  the  "thoughtless  follies"  would  have 
been  powerless.  His  ideal  world  was  not  quite 
real  enough  to  him.  Shakespeare  might  com- 
plain that  "fortune  was  the  guilty  goddess  of  his 
harmful  deeds,"  and  that  "  his  nature  was  almost 
subdued  to  what  it  works  in,  like  the  dyer's  hand." 
But  his  nature  was  not  entirely  subdued.  On 
the  contrary,  it  was  victorious,  for  his  ideal  world 
was  real  and  permanent  to  him,  we  cannot  doubt, 
and  his  emotion  was  not  a  fitful  flash  but  a  steady 
flame,  lighting  up  the  dark  places  of  life  and 
guiding  him  past  the  cruel  rocks  and  through 
the  cross-currents. 

Another  Scotchman,  Thomas  Carlyle,  a  great- 
er man  than  Robert  Burns,  illustrates  the  lack  of 
broad  sympathies.  But  the  incompleteness  of  Car- 
lyle is  entirely  different  from  the  incompleteness 
of  Burns.  He  lacked  the  sympathy  of  love,  the 
enthusiasm  for  humanity  which  causes  the  artist 
to  yearn  over  men  as  if  they  were  the  brothers 
of  his  infancy,  which  regards  selfishness  and  stu- 
pidity as  misfortunes,  not  crimes;  as  deficiencies, 
not  active  principles.  This  is  the  tone  of  mind 
which  has  infinite  tolerance  and  infinite  patience 
with  the  world.     This  tone  of  mind  is  rare  be- 


27b  ELEMENTS    OF    LITERARY    CRITICISM 

cause  it  is  Christ-like.  It  is  not  incompatible 
with  indignation,  but  anger  at  the  offender  is 
tempered  with  sorrow,  a  radical  difference  is  felt 
between  the  sinner  and  the  sin.  This  elevated 
tone  of  mind  is  perhaps  beyond  humanity,  but 
by  as  much  as  the  poet  approaches  it  by  so  much 
he  becomes  the  truer  poet.  His  powers  as  an 
artist  are  vivified  by  purpose  and  insight.  Car- 
lyle,  too,  is  a  poet,  though  he  wrote  no  verse. 
He  looked  at  the  world  sub  specie  aeternitatis.  His 
ethical  enthusiasm  is  a  powerful  governing  im- 
pulse. In  his  conception  the  principle  of  good  is 
a  stern,  unwearied  angel.  Righteousness  is  so 
strong  that  what  is  not  strong  is  not  righteous. 
Carlyle's  identification  of  will-power  Avith  moral 
elevation  is  a  serious  philosophical  error.  It  is 
as  if  one  should  make  formal  beauty  to  lie  ex- 
clusively in  bone  and  muscle.  In  consequence, 
his  emotional  fervor  fails  to  call  up  the  response 
it  would  if  its  objects  were  less  narrow.  His  in- 
dignation and  his  admiration  have  a  taint  of  un- 
reality, and  yet  probably  there  was  never  a  more 
sincere  man  than  Thomas  Carlyle.  His  emotional 
nature  was  strong  but  limited.  It  is  something 
to  reverence  "the  immensities  and  the  eternities," 
but  a  man  who  at  the  same  time  believes  that 
the  "Island  of  Great  Britain  is  inhabited  by 
twenty -three  millions  of  people,  mostly  fools," 
fails  to  appreciate  the  conditions  under  which 
the  immensities  and  the  eternities  work  in  human 


THE    EMOTIONAL    POWER  277 

life.  The  intensity  of  this  great  man  makes  his 
work  literature.  We  can  see  here  is  a  soul  on 
fire  ;  but  it  is  the  incompleteness  of  his  emotional 
nature,  not  the  deficiencies  of  his  method,  that 
cause  him  to  fall  below  the  greatest.  The  truly 
divine  emotion  is  love,  and  with  it  come  all  the 
others :  reverence,  pity,  indignation,  unselfish- 
ness, enthusiasm  for  humanity,  long-suffering. 
The  recognition  of  this  fundamental  proposition 
makes  Christianity  the  most  permanent  of  re- 
ligions, and  enables  it  to  resist  the  encroachments 
which  the  ambitions  and  vainglory  of  men  con- 
tinually make  upon  its  development.  It  has  a 
central  positiveness,  so  that  even  a  great  protes- 
tant  like  Carlyle,  whose  thought  is  simply  neg- 
ative, has  a  purifying  influence,  whereas  in 
the  ancient  world  he  would  have  been  destruc- 
tive. 

Artists  feel  a  joy  in  beauty  of  form  closely 
allied  to  the  joy  of  spiritual  beauty  which  is  their 
birthright.  That  beauty  of  form  may  grow  to 
be  the  standard  and  criterion  of  excellence  is  evi- 
dent in  certain  ages  and  in  certain  individuals. 
Art  becomes  a  thing  apart,  not  so  much  the  in- 
terpreter to  humanity  as  the  goddess  of  a  coterie 
of  illuminati.  A  feeling  of  personal  superiority, 
a  sense  of  belonging  to  the  sesthetic  aristocracy 
is  created.  Perfection  of  workmanship  rather 
than  broad  significance  of  thought  is  aimed  at, 
and  something  that  can  be  understood  only  by 


278  ELEMENTS   OF    LITERARY   CRITICISM 

the  inner  brotherhood  is  of  higher  value  than 
something  universally  valid  and  comprehensible. 
This  narrowing  of  the  sympathies  frequently  in- 
creases the  intensity  of  feeling  by  restricting  it 
to  a  privileged  class  and  concentrating  it  on 
small  matters.  I  have  taken  Rossetti  as  an  ex- 
ample of  this  class — a  man  of  genius,  a  man  of 
emotional  fervor,  but  not  a  comprehensive  man. 
Perhaps  it  is  in  his  sonnets  that  the  peculiar 
quality  of  his  feeling  is  most  evident.  In  their 
way  they  are  great  poetry,  but  they  continually 
seem  inadequate  by  an  indefinable  lack  of  corre- 
spondence between  the  sentiment  and  general 
truths.  Their  power  is  due  largely,  setting  aside 
that  which  results  from  beauty  of  musical  form 
and  breadth  of  imagery,  to  the  intense  personal 
feeling  which  runs  through  them.  A  Hymn  to 
Diana  should  be  the  expression  of  devoted  wor- 
ship of  Diana,  but  it  is  elevated  by  the  conscious- 
ness that  she  is  only  one  of  a  great  band  under 
Jove,  the  all -ruler,  who,  also,  is  subject-  to  the 
silent  fates.  Still  it  may  be  a  very  beautiful 
poem  if  the  singer  believes  for  the  time  being 
that  Diana  is  the  only  queen  of  heaven.  Ros- 
setti isolates  the  "Lady  Beauty"  and  thereby 
narrows  his  world  -  idea.  But  he  w^orships  her 
with  personal  intensity  of  feeling  which  is  real 
and  genuine  in  him,  but  in  some  of  his  followers 
is  assumed  and  affected.  How  well  Rossetti 
understood  that  personal  emotion  was  the  elec- 


THE   EMOTIONAL   POWER 


279 


trie  force  which  gave  the  glow  to  expression  is 
evident  in  sonnet  61  : 

"  By  thine  own  tears  thy  song  must  tears  beget, 

0  Singer!  Magic  mirror  thou  hast  none 
Except  thy  manifest  heart;  and  save  thine  own 
Anguish  or  ardor,  else  no  amulet. 

Cisterned  in  pride,  verse  is  the  feathery  jet 
Of  soulless  air-flung  fountains ;  nay,  more  dry 
Than  the  Dead  Sea  for  throats  that  thirst  and  sigh, 
That  song  o'er  which  no  singer's  lids  grew  wet." 

Sonnet  77  illustrates  his  admiration  for  the 
beautiful,  and  how  passionate  that  admiration 
was: 

"  Under  the  arch  of  Life,  when  love  and  death. 
Terror  and  mystery,  guard  her  shrine,  I  saw 
Beauty  enthroned,  and  though  her  gaze  struck  awe, 

1  drew  it  in  as  simply  as  my  breath. 
Her's  are  the  eyes  which  over  and  beneath 
The  sky  and  sea  bend  on  thee,  which  can  draw 
By  sea  or  sky  or  woman,  to  one  law. 

The  allotted  bondman  of  her  song  and  wreath. 

"  This  is  that  Lady  Beauty,  in  whose  praise 
Thy  voice  and  hand  shake  still — long  known  to  thee 
By  flying  hair  and  fluttering  hem — the  beat — 
Following  her  daily — of  thy  heart  and  feet. 
How  passionately  and  irretrievably, 
In  what  fond  flight,  how  many  ways  and  days!" 

Rossetti's  passion  for  beauty  was  a  noble  emo- 
tion.    In  many  of  his  followers  it  falls  to  a  petty 


28o  ELRMEXTS    OF    LITERARY    CRITICISM 

admiration  for  the  apt  and  delicate,  a  love  for 
the  work  of  the  goldsmith  and  ornamenter  of 
china.  Such  a  love  cannot  be  accompanied  by 
true  enthusiasm,  and  verse  inspired  by  bric-a- 
brac  is  bric-a-brac  itself. 

Emotional  capacity  varies  in  different  individ- 
uals from  the  stolid  to  the  hysterical.  We  can 
hardly  believe  that  it  varies  in  different  periods 
of  history  because  it  is  a  constituent  element  of 
human  nature.  But  the  emotions  which  are  cul- 
tivated and  expressed  are  very  different  in  dif- 
ferent centuries.  Historical  events,  political  and 
religious  struggles,  influence  them.  Besides,  there 
is  an  unaccountable  tone  of  feeling  running 
through  society  which  changes  somewhat  as  the 
moods  of  an  individual  change.  Sometimes  men 
seem  to  be  joyous,  enthusiastic,  full  of  eager  cu- 
riosity ;  then  they  seem  to  be  depressed,  lethargic, 
reserved,  doubtful  of  response  from  their  fellows. 
These  moods  are  reflected  in  literature,  the  prod- 
uct of  history  which  reflects  the  feelings  of  men. 
There  is  apparently  a  wonderful  difference  be- 
tween the  literature  of  the  early  seventeenth  and 
the  later  eighteenth  century,  though  both  were 
products  of  the  same  race.  The  literature  of  the 
emotional  period  is  the  most  valuable  ;  in  fact, 
the  two  can  hardly  be  compared.  One  is  the  me- 
dium of  our  spiritual  and  artistic  education,  the 
other  a  collection  of  entertaining  and  interesting 
documents.      We    are   fortunate    in    dating  our 


THE    EMOTIONAL    POWER  281 

Bible  and  our  Book  of  Common  Prayer  from  an 
emotional  age.  That  men  of  later  ages  have 
been  as  humbly  and  reverentially  disposed  as 
were  the  compilers  of  our  early  religious  literature 
we  can  hardly  doubt.  But  for  some  reason  they 
have  never  been  able  to  express  themselves  with 
the  same  fervor.  It  may  be  said  that  the  reason 
why  a  liturgy  cannot  be  written  now  is  that  a 
liturgy  is  a  slow  growth,  a  survival  of  the  fittest 
expression  of  ages.  But  ours  received  its  final 
recasting  not  so  much  in  an  age  of  faith  as  in  an 
age  of  emotion,  and  we  are  fortunate  in  hearing 
this  echo  from  a  time  when  men  felt  and  ex- 
pressed their  feelings.  It  may  be  unheeded  for 
many  times,  but  some  day  in  the  fervent  devotion 
of  the  Collects  or  the  Litany  we  recognize  the 
spirit  of  man  vehemently  straining  under  the 
bonds  of  words,  and  they  become  no  longer  a  set 
form,  but  a  living  voice.  Men  can  imitate  the 
old  phraseology,  but  the  spiritual  uplift  they  can- 
not reach  in  these  days  of  measured  propriety. 

The  immense  value  of  emotional  fervor  is  the 
reason  why  literature  has  not  improved  during 
the  past  two  hundred  and  fifty  years,  while  music 
has.  Music  depends  upon  instruments  which 
have  been  invented  and  improved.  No  one  is 
afraid  to  express  his  feeling  in  this  form  becau?e 
one  does  not  commit  himself  to  anything  definite. 
Literature  depends  upon  certain  elemental  feel- 
ings which  language  is  as  well  fitted  to  express 


2»2  ELEMENTS    OF    LITERARY    CRITICISM 

at  one  period  as  another.  The  refinement  of 
conditions  of  life  which  civilization  brings  ren- 
ders men  less  willing  to  display  those  feelings. 
The  complexities  and  balances  of  things  take  up 
more  of  their  attention,  they  become  a  little  dis- 
trustful of  earnestness,  for  they  feel  certain  that 
there  is  much  to  be  said  on  both  sides.  Chaucer's 
philosophy  seems  to  them  to  be  a  safe  rule  of 
life  : 

"  Pain  thee  not  each  crooked  to  redress, 
In  trust  of  her  that  turneth  as  a  ball." 

"  Trust  fortune.  The  grand  average  will  show  a  slight 
gain  which  your  puny  individual  efforts  cannot  increase 
or  diminish.  Why  grow  excited  over  injustice.'  It  will 
wear  out  just  as  slowly  after  you  are  gone,  and  to  shriek 
or  fume  over  it  only  makes  one  ridiculous." 

This  explains,  too,  why  the  highest  literature 
cannot  be  bought.  Emotion  is  spontaneous  and 
cannot  be  commanded.  If  a  man  is  writing  to 
order,  he  can  do  good,  honest  work,  he  can  even 
indulge  in  some  imaginative  flights,  he  can  polish 
his  phrases  and  verify  his  quotations,  but  he  can- 
not be  utterly  sincere.  He  is  a  professional  and 
must  have  regard  to  the  prejudices  of  his  audi- 
ence. Above  all,  he  must  not  be  animated  by 
fixed  convictions,  for  they  may  be  contrary  to  the 
opinions  of  some  portion  of  those  he  wishes  to 
conciliate.  To  be  very  much  in  earnest  a  man 
must  be  independent.     For  one  who  comes  be- 


THE    EMOTIONAL    POWER  283 

fore  the  public  for  pay  it  would  be  unbecoming 
to  evince  anger  or  indignation  or  scorn,  or  in- 
deed any  strong  emotion  except  at  some  of  the 
public  scape -goats.  A  decorous  attitude  and  a 
sectarian  conscience  are  expected  of  the  salaried 
preacher.  The  salaried  writer,  too,  must  be  care- 
ful what  he  says.  He  must  assume  the  "public 
manners  bred  by  public  means "  which  Shake- 
speare regrets  in  his  own  case.  When  he  has 
reached  a  fixed  position  and  can  speak  with  au- 
thority and  is  sure  of  his  audience  he  may  cast 
off  his  fetters,  but  then  it  is  too  late.  The  habit 
of  compromise  and  reticence  is  fixed.  The  con- 
victions of  youth  are  forgotten.  He,  too,  takes 
Chaucer's  advice  to 

"  Spurn  not  against  an  al. 
Strive  not  as  doth  a  crocke  with  a  wall." 

He  subsides  into  a  general  contentment  with 
the  order  of  things,  he  is  not  particularly  angry 
nor  particularly  joyous  :  he  is  comfortable.  A 
man  like  Shakespeare  is  free  to  speak  only  in  a 
romantic  and  emotional  age.  A  man  like  Brown- 
ing must  be  pecuniarily  independent  in  an  age 
like  ours  when  the  note  of  literature  is  point  de 
zeie,  or  he  must  sacrifice  to  the  present  genera- 
tion "what  was  meant  for  mankind."  The  cheap 
theatrical  pathos  of  Dickens  is  readily  salable, 
but  there  is  no  market  for  Shelley's  Adonais  nor 


284  ELEMENTS   OF    LrTERARY    CRITICISM 

for  Carlyle's  Sartor  Resartus.  Their  authors 
must  look  to  future  generations  and  be  content 
with  the  possibility  of  posthumous  fame.  It  has 
always  been  so  except  in  short  periods  of  history. 
The  man  who  casts  a  penetrating  view  into  life, 
on  whose  soul  rests  a  conviction  of  the  solemnity 
of  things,  will  never  meet  with  the  ready  recog- 
nition accorded  to  the  man  who  explains  the 
superficial  view  of  his  day.  No  one  felt  this 
more  than  Dante — the  poet  of  intense  emotional 
power,  the  representative  of  moral  passion — who 
was  in  his  own  day  held  secondary  to  some  court- 
ly minstrel  whose  name  is  now  forgotten.  But 
this  very  intensity,  this  consuming  flame  of  his 
soul,  so  ardent  that  we  wonder  how  he  could  have 
retained  sanity,  is  one  of  the  qualities  that  make 
his  work  so  great.  If  we  painfully  translate  a 
page,  we  draw  our  breath,  saying,  "  this  is  liter- 
ature." If  we  read  a  translation  we  find  that  the 
peculiar  quality  of  expressing  emotion  is  utterly 
lost.  The  English  words  are  stiff,  unreal,  con- 
torted, powerless.  The  meaning  has  been  trans- 
ferred from  one  page  to  another,  but  the  power 
of  arousing  and  expressing  feeling  has  been  left 
behind.  Emotion  is  so  peculiarly  a  personal 
matter  that  it  cannot  be  translated.  It  is  the 
part  of  us  that  feels  that  is  immortal,  if  any  part 
is,  and  the  art  product  inspired  by  feeling  par- 
takes of  the  immortality  of  its  source. 

It  will  be  found  that  the  note  of  shallow  emo- 


THE    EMOTIONAL    POWER  285 

tion  lowers  the  tone  of  any  literary  production 
more  than  any  other  one  defect.  A  false  philos- 
ophy may  be  pardoned,  sketchy  and  weak  char- 
acter-drawing may  be  overlooked,  a  rough  un- 
finished music  has  a  manly  character,  but  false 
feeling  is  fatal.  When  Moore  in  one  of  his  songs, 
after  lamenting  the  loss  of  the  friends  of  his 
youth  rather  gracefully,  concludes  : 

"  I  feel  like  one  who  treads  alone 
Some  banquet  hall  deserted, 
Whose  lights  are  fled, 
Whose  garlands  dead, 
And  all  but  him  departed," 

we  say,  unconsciously,  "  Great  Heavens  !  is  that 
the  way  you  look  on  life  ?  In  calling  up  the  re- 
membrance of  youth  do  you  experience  only  the 
regret  that  might  come  over  a  man  re-entering 
a  banquet  hall  ?  If,  in  your  estimation  the  two 
reminiscences  are  in  any  way  parallel  or  compar- 
able, your  interpretation  of  life  is  unpleasant.  If 
the  figure  is  merely  an  unmeaning  bit  of  decora- 
tion, you  are  an  insincere  artist." 

Affectation  or  the  expression  of  feeling  one 
does  not  experience  is  simply  falsehood,  and 
thereby  repulsive.  Error  and  prejudice  are  fre- 
quently very  attractive  because  they  are  honest- 
ly entertained,  but  pretence  is  hateful  to  gods 
and  men.  It  is  hard  to  dislike  Falstafif,  he  is  so 
honest  in  his  wickedness.     In  fact,  we  may  as 


286  ELEMENTS    OF    LITERARY    CRITICISM 

well  admit  that  we  like  him.  He  makes  no  pre- 
tence whatever  to  any  higher  standard,  and  es- 
capes the  damnation  of  the  hypocrite.  In  lit- 
erature, sincerity  or  adequate  relation  between 
feeling  and  expression  is  the  note  of  the  best 
work.  Euphuism  is  not  displeasing,  although  it 
is  not  earnest,  because  no  pretence  to  earnestness 
is  made.  Sentimentalism  is  repulsive,  for  it  as- 
sumes certain  feelings  which  are  evidently  not 
the  proper  mood  of  the  mind  under  the  given 
circumstances.  This  is  such  a  deadly  sin  that  it 
cannot  be  exemplified  from  the  pages  of  the  real 
poets.  Byron  is  guilty  of  it  sometimes.  The 
despair  of  his  heroes  is  evidently  theatrical.  The 
gay  diabolism  of  Don  Juan  is  preferable  to  the 
set  sneer  of  Childe  Harold,  for  it  is  natural.  In- 
stances of  sentimentalism  are  frequent  in  the 
lesser  poets — Mrs.  Barbauld,  Motherwell,  Bulwer, 
Owen  Meredith — and  in  many  ephemeral  prose 
writers.  They  cheat  us  for  a  while,  then  we  grow 
tired  of  them. 

Emotional  susceptibility  alone  is  of  little  value. 
It  needs  the  artistic  power  of  musical  expression, 
the  power  of  conceiving  character,  a  sane  philos- 
ophy of  life,  and  the  power  of  grasping  a  unity  in 
the  mind  to  render  it  effective.  When  these 
powers  are  evenly  balanced  we  have  the  true  ar- 
tist in  literature.  These  powers  are  incommu- 
nicable and  non-hereditary.  Such  a  perfect  bal- 
ance as  marks  the  great  artist  can  occur  very 


THE    EMOTIONAL    POWER  287 

rarely,  perhaps  but  once  or  twice  in  the  life  of 
a  nation. 

At  the  same  time  the  constitution  of  human 
nature  is  such  that  poets  must  appear.  All  men 
desire  to  live.  From  this  results  the  struggle 
for  life,  the  ceaseless  activity  of  living  things. 
But  most  men  desire  more.  They  desire  to  know. 
If  the  struggle  for  life  is  the  animating  spirit  of 
business,  the  desire  to  know  is  the  inspiration  of 
science.  But  men  desire  still  more,  they  desire 
to  understand.  This  desire  makes  poetry  and 
ethics,  and,  in  the  large  sense,  religion,  necessary 
to  healthy  social  life.  This  desire  sometimes 
conquers  the  desire  to  live,  and  in  the  poets  this 
desire  is  stronger  than  both  the  others.  They 
have  no  message  to  the  few  whose  horizon  is 
bounded  by  the  desire  to  live — the  mere  men  of 
business — nor  to  the  few  whose  spiritual  needs 
are  limited  by  the  desire  to  know — the  mere  men 
of  science — even  if  it  be  the  science  of  literature. 
They  announce  the  moral  laws.  They  are  not 
content  to  say  of  the  world  simply,  "  it  is,"  nor 
of  men  simply,  "they  are."  Existence  is  a  fact, 
and  so  is  the  law  of  gravitation,  but  both  must 
have  some  background.  Perhaps  this  background 
is  such  that  existence  and  the  law  of  gravitation 
must  be — perhaps  it  is  not.  Philosophers  build 
theories  on  either  hypothesis.  Both  rest  in  con- 
jecture. But  one  thing  at  least  is  certain.  The 
really  important  relation  of  men  to  each  other 


288  ELEMENTS    OF    LITERARY    CRITICISM 

and  to  nature  is  an  emotional  one,  not  an  intel- 
lectual nor  a  material  one.  It  is  the  only  rela- 
tion on  which  substantial  happiness  is  based,  and 
the  only  one  which  leads  to  any  comprehension, 
any  understanding  that  will  not  be  set  aside  by 
death. 


INDEX  OF  NAMES  AND  TOPICS 


Accent,  145. 

Achilles,  240. 

Actors'  presentation  of  charac- 
ter, 59. 

Adonais,  234;  extract,  269. 

yFlsthetic  emotion,  257. 

Affected  emotion,  285. 

Agiiicozirt,  159. 

Alexander,  62. 

Amadis  of  Gaul,  76. 

American,  the,  139. 

Andromeda,  159. 

Aiiteros,  184. 

Apliorisms,  ig. 

Airadia,  14. 

Arnold,  Benedict,  240 ;  Mat- 
thew, 228. 

"Art  for  art's  sake,"  260. 

Auld  Lang  Syne,  232. 

Austen,  Jane,  8. 

B 

Bacon,  124. 

Barbauld,  Mrs.,  286. 

Barry  Lyndon,  134. 

Beauty  of  form,  a  false  criterion, 

277. 
Bede,  164. 

Bi(5graphy,  unity  of,  21. 
Blair's  Grave,  195. 
19 


Bleak  House,  25. 

Blot  in  the  ^  Sctctcheon,  96. 

Book  of  Common  Prayer,  281. 

Book  of  Job,  270. 

Booth's  Richelieu,  59. 

Brand,  Ethan,  242. 

Bret  Harte,  253. 

Bridge  of  Sighs,  158. 

Brooke  Dorothea,  86. 

Browne,  Sir  Thomas,  16;  prose, 

206. 
Browning,  8;  phrasing  of,  213; 

Lost  Leader,   159;    Soliloquy 

of  the  Spanish  Cloister,  37. 
Bulvver,  286. 
Hunyan,  character  of,  72. 
Burden  of  A^iin'7'eh,  "J' he,  128. 
Burns,  232  ;  emotional  intensity 

of,  271  ;  epitaph  of,  274. 
Bvron,  259,  286;  philosophy  of , 

'118. 
By  the  North  Sea,  178. 


Caesar,  62. 

Camiibell's  phrase,  195. 

Caricature,  85. 

Carlyle,  21,  28;  on  Burns,  271 ; 

narrow   sympathies,  275 ; 

phrasing,  218;  Sartor  Resar^ 

tus,  284. 
Catullus,  224. 


290 


ELEMENTS   OF    LITERARY    CRITICISM 


Cervantes,  27. 

Character,  development  of,  gi ; 
in  Shakespeare  and  George 
Eliot,  92. 

Character-  drawing,  48  ;  defini- 
tion of,  7  ;  difficulty  of,  53; 
of  men  by  women,  98  ;  meth- 
ods of,  77  ;  number  of  words 
required  in,  93;  sympathetic 
not  intellectual,  49;  of  worn 
en  by  men,  98. 

Characters  of  history,  60. 

Characters,  reality  of,  54. 

Chaucer,  8 ;  character-drawing 
of,   63;    philosophy    of,    105, 

Christian  Morals,  207. 

Claudius,  no. 

Coleridge,  18,  21,  246,  257. 

Color,  254. 

Commemoration  Ode,  141. 

Congreve,  229. 

Copperfiehi,  David,  91. 

Cordelia,  94. 

Cox,  Palmer,  90. 

Crabbe,  233. 

D 

Dactyllic  line,  158. 

Daniel  Deronda,  31,  253. 

Dante,  4,  12,  284;  description 
of,  238. 

David,  62. 

De  Coverley,  Sir  Roger,  72. 

Defoe,  8. 

Descri]ition,Burns's,232;  of  Ca- 
tullus, 224;  Dante,  238;  Haw- 
thorne, 242;  Matthew. A  mold, 
228;  not  mechanical,  227; 
Milton, 228  ;  modern,  226  ;  by 
particulars,  227;  Pope's,  229; 
Raskin's  Rhone,  250;  by 
rhythm.  226;  Shakespeare's 
King  Henry,  225  ;  Shelley's, 
233- 


Descriptive  power,  definition  of, 
II,  224. 

Desire  to  live,  the,  287;  to 
know,  287 ;  to  understand, 
287. 

Dexterous  phrase,  197. 

Dickens,  26,  29,  229,  252;  char- 
acter-drawing of,  86;  philos- 
o[)hy  of,  135;  probable  im- 
mortality of,  137;  vs.  Eliot 
antl  Thackeray,  go. 

Dido,  240. 

Dombey  and  Son,  26. 

Do'wnfall,    The,  I16. 

Dream  Children,  rhythm  of, 
182. 

Duchess  of  Malfi,  65. 

Du  Maurier,  97. 

Dttiifiad,  266. 

Dynamic  phrase,  The,  ig6. 

E 

Egoist,   The,  75. 

Eliot,  George,  8,  31 ;  character- 
drawing  of,  87 ;  number  of 
characters,  8g;  vs.  Dickens, 
go. 

Emerson,  28,  124;  phrases, 
199. 

Emotion,  a;sthetic,  257  ;  cannot 
be  artificial,  282  ;  moral,  256; 
in  Villon's  verse,  256. 

Emotional  capacity,  Burns's, 
272;  Carlyle's,  275;  Milton's, 
262;  Pope's,  266;  Rossetti's, 
278;  Shakespeare's,  261 ;  in 
various  eras,  280  ;  expressive- 
ness, modern  lack  of,  283  ; 
intensity,  11  ;  power,  255  ; 
susceptibility.  Shelley's,  268  ; 
Carlyle's  lack  of,  275. 
End-stopt  form,  173. 

English  Men  of  Letters,  The,  21. 

English  JVorthies,  21. 


INDEX    OF    NAMES   AND    TOPICS 


2gi 


Evangeline,  159. 
Exalted  feeling,  130. 


Faerie  Qiieene,  The,  25. 
Felicitous  phrase,  196. 
Feverel,  Richard,  75. 
Fielding,  8. 
Form,  artistic,  2,  3. 
Francis  Villon,  104. 
Frye,  Prosser,  156. 


Geneva,  250. 

Gifford,  268. 

Goethe,  4,  44. 

Goldsmith,  character  of,  73. 

Grandcourt,  Henleigh,  98. 

Gray's  Elegy,    199  ;   phrasing, 

197. 
Greek  drama,  29. 


H 

Hamlet,  8 ;  character  of,  56, 
66-72. 

Hardy,  245. 

Harleth,  Gwendolen,  253. 

Hawthorne,  7,  34,  74;  charac- 
ter-drawing of,  80;  Ethan 
Brand,  242 ;  philosophy  of, 
125. 

Hayne,  265. 

Henry  V.,  92. 

Hiaivatha,  154. 

Historical  characters,  60. 

House  of  Seven  Gables,  42, 

Howells,  83. 

Hugo,  4,  44,  244. 

Hutton,  40. 

Hymn  to  Night,  234. 


Iambic,  The,  148. 

Ibsen,  7. 

Idyls  of  the  King,  219. 

Iliad,  22,  229. 

Illustrations,  96. 

//  Peiiseroso,  157. 

In  Memoriam,  22,  149. 


James,   Henry,   philosophy  of, 

138. 
Je7u  of  Malta,  65. 
Job,  52. 
Johnson,  Dr.,  21. 


K 

Keats,  19,  154,  174  ;   luxuriant 

phrasing  of,  212. 
Kinds  of  phrases,  196. 
Kingsley,  159,  246. 
Kipling.  245. 
Knowledge    of    human    nature 

vs.  appreciation  of  character, 

57- 


V  Allegro,  157. 

Lamb,  16;    prose  phrasing  of, 

207  ;  rhythm  of,  182. 
Langland,  106. 
Lead,  Kindly  Light,  156. 
Lear,  25  ;  rhythm  of,  176. 
Lincoln,  164. 
Line,  The,  148. 
Literary   powers,  definition,  3; 

technical, 5  ;  fundamental,  13. 
Literature,  definition  of,  i ;  vs. 

other  arts,  221. 
Locksley  Hall,  149.  , 


292 


ELEMENTS    OF    LITERARY   CRITICISM 


Longfellow,  philosophy  of,  125. 

Lost  Leader,  1 59. 

Love's  Labour  's  Lost,  rhythm 

of,  176. 
Lowell,    Coriunemoration    Ode, 

141. 
Lycidas,  263. 

M 

Macaulay,  11,  28. 

Macbeth,  gi. 

Mahomet,  240. 

Mallory,  64. 

jMarius  the  Epicurean,  44. 

Marlowe's  characters,  65. 

A  far  tin  Chuzzlewit,  26. 

Men's    characters     drawn     by 

women,  98. 
Merchant  of  Venice,  31. 
Meredith,     George,     51,     75  ; 

Owen,  286. 
Methods  of  drawing  character, 

77- 

Milton,  12,  228,  235  ;  compound 
adjectives,  203 ;  descriptions, 
230,  236;  emotional  inten- 
sity, 263;  II  Penseroso,  157; 
L' Allegro,\<^'ii\  prose  phrases, 
205  ;  pamphlets  on  divorce, 
205  ;  extract  from  pamph- 
let on  divorce,  184;  prose 
rhytlim,  184. 

Moore,  285. 

Moral  emotion,  256. 

Motherwell,  286. 

Mourning  Bride,  229. 

Murfree,  Miss,  253. 

Music,  improvement  in,  281. 

Musical  element,  145  ;  power, 
9,  143  ;  quality  alone,  jjow- 
erless,  221  ;  qualities  of  dif- 
ferent eras,  190  ;  quality  of 
dactyl,  158;  of  iambic,  157  ; 
of  the  trochee,  155. 


N 

Newcomes,  The,  133. 
Newman's  lyric  hymn,  156. 
Niagara,  162. 

O 

Ode  to  the  West  Wind,  233. 
Ophelia,  94. 
Overflow  verse,  174. 


Paradise  Lost,  25. 

Paradise  Regained,  230. 

I'ater,  Walter,  15,  44. 

I'athelic  fallacy,  241,  246. 

Pendennis,  91. 

Pentameter,  149. 

Philosophical  power,  definition, 
8. 

Philosophy  of  Browning,  127; 
of  Byron,  118;  of  Dickens, 
135;  of  Hawthorne,  125;  of 
James,  138  ;  of  Longfellow, 
125;  of  Rossetti,  126,  128; 
of  Shakespeare,  109  ;  of  Shel- 
ley, 122;  of  Tennyson,  127; 
of  Thackeray,  132  ;  of  Whit- 
ier,  126;  of  Wordsworth, 
120. 

Phrasal    power,    10;    of    Pope, 

193- 

Phrase,  the,  191. 

Phrases  the  molecules  of  liter- 
ature, 222  ;  Browne's,  206  ; 
Browning's,  214;  Campbell's, 
195;  Emerson's,  199;  Gray's, 
197;  Keats's,  213;  kinds  of, 
197;  Lamb's,  207  ;  Milton's, 
205 ;  Shakespeare's,  201 ; 
Tennyson's,  215;  Words- 
worth's, 209. 

Pickivick  Papers,  26. 


INDEX    OF    NAMES    AND    TOPICS 


293 


Pictorial  illustrations, 96  ;  poets, 
231. 

Pilgrim  s  Progress,  72. 

Pippa  Passes,  96. 

Plot,  unity  of,  32. 

Poe,  Edgar  A.,  240. 

Poet,  a  phrase-maker,  igi. 

Pope,  245  ;  emotional  suscepti- 
bility of,  266;  descriptions, 
229;     metre,    173;     phrases, 

193- 
Princess,  The,  43. 
Prose   rhythms,    180,    189;    of 

Lamb,  182;  of  Milton,  184: 

of     Jeremy      Taylor,     186 ; 

Theodore  Watts,  critique  of, 

188. 
Prosody,  147. 
Proverbs,  19. 
Puritan  ideal,  258-259. 


Quaker  meeting  (extract),  208. 

R 

Raleigh,  164. 

Xealism,  77,  80. 

Repressed  emotion  of  our  age, 
189. 

Rhone,  description  of,  250. 

Rhyme,  150. 

Rhythm  in  description,  226  ;  in 
nature,  162  ;  of  prose,  180; 
of  the  Seusi/iT'e  Plant,  168. 

Rhythm  vs.  metre,  161-168. 

Rhythmical  scheme,  146. 

Rhythms  of  Shakespeare's  son- 
nets, 164. 

Ring  and  The  Book,  The,  22. 

Robin  Hood,  154. 

Rock  of  Ages,  156. 

Romanticism,  77,  82,  85. 

Rossetti,  aesthetic  emotion,  278; 


philosophy  of,  126,  128;  son- 
nets, 279. 
Ruskin,  11  ;    the    pathetic    fal- 
lacy, 241,  246;  "The  Slave- 
siiij),"  description  of,  247. 


Satan,  52.  235. 

Science  vs.  art,  244. 

Scott,  Walter,  on  Burns,  272. 

Sense,  rhythm,  163. 

Sensitive  Plant,  159,  168-173. 

Sentimentalism,  286. 

Sermon  on  Marriage  (extract), 
186. 

Shakespeare,  4,  9,  15;  charac- 
ter of  Hamlet,  66-72  ;  char- 
acters, reality  of,  54,  55,  87; 
number  of,  88 ;  descriptive 
phrase,  225 ;  double  adjec- 
tives, 220;  emotional  inten- 
sity, 260;  lyric,  156;  philoso- 
phy, 109  ;  phrase  power,  201 ; 
plots,  113;  rhythm  in  Love's 
Labour  V  Lost  and  Lear,  176; 
sonnets,  20,  164. 

Sharp,  Becky,  98. 

Shelley,  21,  233,  249,  257;  de- 
scription, 227 ;  emotional  in- 
tensity, 268  ;  lyric,  179;  phi- 
losophy, 122. 

Sidney,  14. 

Singing  poets,  231. 

Skeleton  in  Armor,  159. 

Skylark,  177. 

"  Slave-ship,  The,"  247. 

Sleep  and  Poetry,  174. 

Soliloquy  of  the  Spanish  Clois- 
ter, 37. 

Spenser's  characters,  72. 

Stand-point,  36. 

Stanza,  The,  150. 

Sterne,  characters  of,  73; 
phrases,  195. 


JK  K  ri 


294 


ELEMENTS    OF    LITERARY    CRITICISM 


Stevenson,  245. 
Style.  27,  35. 
Swift,  105. 
Swinburne,    ro, 
quality,  178. 


159;    musical 


Taylor,  Jeremy,  rhythm  of,  186. 
Tears,  Idle  7'ears,  220. 
Tennyson,    8;    philosophy    of, 

127;  phrasing,  215. 
Thackeray,    8,    21,    244,    252; 

Henry  Esmond,  44  ;  philoso 

phy  of,  132;  Vanity  Fair,  i\^; 

vs.  Dickens,  go. 
Thompson,  233. 
Tolstoi,  4,  8,  44. 
Trinity  Hymn,  The,  156. 
Trochee,  the,  153. 
Trollope's  Life  of  Thackeray, 

21. 

u 

Ulysses,  245. 

Uncle  Toby,  73. 

Unity,  definition  of,  6 ;  of  char- 
acter group,  42,  45  ;  formal, 
18,  22;  logical,  23;  of  nar- 
rative, 41;    organic,  18,  22; 


of  plot,  32;  of  stand-poin, 
36;  of  subject,  28  ;  of  style, 
2=;. 


Vanity  Fair,  133. 
Victor  Hugo,  4,  244. 
Villon,  256. 

W 

Watts,  Theodore,  163 ;  extract, 
iSS. 

Webster,  265. 

Whitman,  141. 

Whittier,  232;  philosophy  of, 
126. 

Wife  of  Bath,  63. 

Women's  characters  drawn  by 
men,  98. 

Word-painting,  226. 

Words,  feeling  for,  10. 

Wordsworth,  241,  249  ;  philos- 
ophy of,  120;  phrase-power, 
209. 

Writer's  personality  conveyed-, 
103  ;  philosophy,  100. 


Zola,  115,  116,  117,  244. 


THE  END 


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